The emergence of Laufey, the Icelandic-Chinese singer-songwriter who has become one Gen Z’s chief flag-waver for throwback pop, is largely attributable to her abundant talent. She has a sculptural alto that easily curves into her heart-on-sleeve lyrics, a knack for marrying 21st-century problems with fishhook melodies that recall standards from previous centuries, and a keen sense for framing those vocal lines in arrangements that highlight the tensions lurking underneath.
She’s also a product of her time, when critical masses in pop can develop away from the expected places. TikTok has the lipsync-showcase app Musical.ly in its DNA, and cuts from old Broadway hits, honky-tonk jukeboxes, and avant-garde composers can bubble into its trending-music lists. Pop styles that are adjacent to classical and jazz have also had their moments; Encanto track “We Don’t Talk About Bruno” became the second Disney-musical-borne song to hit Number One in 2022, while the likes of Frozen and Hamilton have become part of the contemporary pop firmament in ways other chart-toppers of recent vintage haven’t. And even though music education’s existence has felt perilous in the wake of arts-hostile budget cutting around the U.S., new generations still want to study it, whether they’re learning violin or Ableton.
On her third album, Laufey dives into the idea of falling in love, coming to grips with the ways that early-days fun can contort itself into, as she sings on the anxious closing track, “cold, bloody, bitter sabotage.” It opens on a hopeful note: A choir trills “ding, dong” at the outset of “Clockwork,” a close-up view at how first-date jitters can settle into full-on romance. Laufey’s full-bodied alto handles the song’s brief beautifully, her voice darting nervously at first then blossoming into a full-bore croon as she becomes more assured. But it’s not all sunshine and rainbows: “Snow White” stares into the abyss of insecurities about “all the ways/I failed myself, I failed the world all the same,” strings swelling into the mix as her frustration with herself grows; “Carousel” is part music-box fantasia, part apology to someone who viewed Laufey’s life from a too-adjacent angle.
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As A Matter of Time continues, the slights and irritations pile up. “Forget-Me-Not” — which includes some lyrics in Icelandic — opens gently, Laufey sounding exhausted as she counts off her regrets, then expands as Laufey’s frustrations mount enough for her to begin singing in Icelandic. The quick-stepping “A Cautionary Tale” feels like a race against a cosmic clock, Laufey’s impassioned vocal adding urgency to the idea of a relationship having an inevitable time limit. “Mr. Eclectic” uses piano twinkles and unexpected naturals to underscore the irritation with a ”grandiose thinker” who’s “just a stoner patronizing” Laufey, unfolding into a sweet bossa nova as Laufey asserts herself on the chorus. (Laufey’s sighed “Oh, what a poser,” backed by increasingly menacing string tremolos, seems made for TikToks a la the chorus of Lorde’s “Man of the Year.”)
The closing track “Sabotage” begins in stripped-down fashion then ends in upheaval, strings trembling and drums rumbling, a choir moaning “ah” in harmony as strings crash and a trumpet bays. It ends abruptly, and if the album loops (which in the streaming era it very well might), the listener hears those opening “ding-dong”s again, implying a perpetual cycle of limerence, love, and loss — a tale as old as time, no matter what style of song might be attached.
