Julia Jacklin review, Pre Pleasure: The high of a lifetime

The Australian musician’s latest album is one of those rare records that reveals the whole artist, cheap kicks and all

Julia Jacklin embraces the ideal that openness in modern songwriting should extend far beyond the emotional (Nick Mckk)

The “WAP” revolution, it appears, has reached the folkies. Over two albums of sublime folk and glowering atmospheric rock – 2016’s Don’t Let the Kids Win and 2019’s Crushing – Melbourne-via-Blue Mountains singer Julia Jacklin made a name for herself as not just an imaginative songwriter, but as a frank and forthright lyricist, tackling topics such as revenge porn and sexuality crises. Her third album Pre Pleasure, recorded in Montreal with The National producer Marcus Paquin, further embraces the ideal that openness in modern songwriting should extend far beyond the emotional into all aspects of the female psyche.

Alongside songs of love, religion, self-doubt, family and lost friendship, then, Jacklin sings of bedroom role-playing a sexy magician “naked beneath the cape”, and of watching porn to try (and fail) to turn herself on. Thanks to the likes of Peaches, St Vincent, Khia, Cardi B and now Jacklin, overt sex in music, stripped of metaphorical veil, is no longer solely the territory of leering horndogs such as the Red Hot Chili Peppers, The Bloodhound Gang or Blink-182. Pre Pleasure is one of those rare records that reveals the whole artist, cheap kicks and all.

Not that, as the title might suggest, it’s all foreplay and no bang. Many of these 10 tracks sidle in with minimalist mode; the glitch beats and bass throbs of losing-my-religion confessional “Lydia Wears a Cross” align Jacklin to the modernist folk of Sufjan Stevens or Sharon Van Etten; the limpid hula tones of “Moviegoer” recall the hazy sophistication of Portishead or Keren Ann’s gorgeous 101 album from 2011. But often the songs build to elegant full band edifices or swerve into unexpected noise. The gentle piano pop of “Love, Try Not to Let Go” finds itself invaded by barrages of fuzz guitar, all sweetness and fight.

Elsewhere, where the emotion of a song requires, Jacklin turns things up. Chugging motoric rock best suits the personal fracturing of “I Was Neon”. A sweet grungey swoon fits “Be Careful With Yourself”, a to-do list for a potential life partner to ensure they stick around. And she rebuilds the rough-hewn textures of The Velvet Underground to help her capture the quiet lust of “Magic” (her conjuring-themed shagathon) and the forlorn messiness of a sisterhood falling apart on “End of a Friendship”.

Ultimately, though, the sparser moments hit hardest. “Less of a Stranger”, a plaintive guitar heartbreaker, revolves around the devastating line “I just wish my own mother was less of a stranger”. And the hymnal “Too in Love to Die” is a love song like no other: Jacklin imagines her emotional glow must make her immortal if her plane goes down or she steps into speeding traffic. If this is the Pre Pleasure, best prepare for the high of a lifetime.