Lumber Lung – Self-Titled
Unlike many emocore predecessors who dwell in isolation, Lumber Lung frame our bodies as means of solidarity and connection, offering moments of radical tenderness.
“What the fuck is this, 1994?”
That’s the question most people would ask when they hear about Santa Barbara, California-based emocore quintet Lumber Lung, which existed in the early to mid-2010s. While most bands of that decade were focused on the Topshelf’s twinkle-daddies revival trend, Lumber Lung (featuring members of hardcore bands like Drain, Harness, and Rainbow Person) banded together to create something that stayed true to the ’90s Dischord production.
Their catalogue is slim yet potent: a demo EP, the self-titled LP Lumber Lung (2011), and a final EP in 2012. Start with the LP, it is the definitive document: raw, poetic, and painfully direct.
The album unleashes their territory of unapologetic vulnerability and emotional labor without crossing the line into the hyperbolic theatrics of La Dispute. The energetic and tight production is amplified by desperate half-sung/spoken word, occasional gang vocals, and more-than-competent songwriting that makes otherwise short tracks more than complete.
Their lyrical themes carry a tender, but tired view on time, reclamation of boundaries, bodily autonomy and mutual care. Songs like “Receiver” and “Vomit a Little in Your Mouth” deal these in an upfront Riot Grrrl fashion, which repeats this frustration that “I’m not interested but you just keep talking, you just keep looking, you just keep touching…” before blurting out the final “FUCK YOU!”, or the chilling take on “Time Bandits” where it deals with the length of reclaiming autonomy, “How long will it take for you to find the strength to say this body’s mine/these hands these arms these legs, it could be days, it could be years.”
The emotional buildup gets real for the listener when the vocalist emphasizes “And these days all you do is work you don’t even have time to breathe/surrounded by people who don’t give a fuck”, amplifying the desperation already present in its music.
The closer “Vomit A Little In Your Mouth” is a survivor’s appeal, asserting “Don’t put your arm around my waist unless you ask if I want you to”, and wishing that “I could go back and give myself the strength to push you away/I wish someone had told me it was okay to say no”. The final repeated line is joined by the chorus, echoing this continuing plea for solidarity.
Unlike many emocore predecessors who dwell in isolation, Lumber Lung frame our bodies as means of solidarity and connection. “Warm Arms” promises, “I know you know summer days don’t last, wherever we are I’ll have warm arms for you,” while “Contrails” sparks a rare optimism, “Maybe today will be the day that I’ll stand up, won’t be afraid of the lies, the guilt, the coercion, that shit ends now, it’s time, my voice will come out of my mouth and I’ll throw my words into space.” It’s lyrics like these that offer moments of radical tenderness. Warmth as resistance. Presence as care.
Lumber Lung capture emotional heaviness without overstatement. The band does not constantly scream in your face; instead, the songs feel like walking the shoreline and letting cold waves break over you, not to be cleansed, but simply to feel something real.
