Wicked Jaw both is and isn’t a pandemic album. The dystopic terror of COVID-19 is an omnipresent touchpoint in the songs, which Schneider began writing in the summer of 2020, but the virus functions as a gateway for interpersonal analysis and reflection. What does it mean to be an American in the 21st century? What does it mean to be a woman? What does it mean to be a survivor? Schneider digs tunnels into collective memory on songs like “Go Back to Disnee,” a devastating bossa nova track that could soundtrack an episode of White Lotus. “Under the blankets, into the plastic dreams / Into the comfort of parental regimes,” Schneider purrs with a delivery so gentle that you might not detect the venom seeping through. On this tune and others, Schneider’s exceptional songcraft is most evident through her ability to excavate the toxins lingering beneath the surface in a way where they begin to shine and radiate a strange beauty.
“Beauty throws darkness and pain into relief so you can see it more clearly,” Schneider said of this songwriting tendency. While her lyrics do a sort of time traveling alchemy on past wounds, the sonic palette of the record is the real time machine. The running joke in the studio was that Wicked Jaw should be called “Radio Free Christina,” since it felt like turning the radio dial from song to song. How else would we get an album that boasts both Dido and Thin Lizzy as musical references? But the breadth of its melodic toolkit is held together by the singularity of Schneider’s compositional voice. Although Wicked Jaw is among her most accessible releases yet, chock full of infectious hooks, these songs still feature what her bandmates call trademark “Christina-isms” – the odd metered phrases and unusual time signatures that keep the listener on their toes and the songs firmly rooted in a space of experimental sophistipop.
Lead single “You Were Right About One Thing” is a case in point. Composed with the aim of harkening classic Christine McVie hits, the easiness of this song for the listener belies an innovative underlying architecture, where complex rhythms and wild chordal leaps are somehow smooth as silk. Meanwhile, Schneider applies the same tender veneer to the song’s challenging lyrical content. “Wrote all my worst fears down when i conjured you,” she sings to a past lover who treated her badly. These memories aren’t recounted with resentment or anger, but with compassion for the ways that intergenerational trauma bears out on relationships, shaping the patterns we struggle not to repeat. “In the end, it’s like, ‘can I really hate you for hurting me when I chose you to hurt me?” Schneider said, explaining that the song came from a place of “trying to reconcile forgiveness for yourself and for the other person, so you can both grow.”
Wicked Jaw offers a similar therapeutic release upon repeat listens as it did for Schneider when she wrote it. It’s a portrait of commanding and loving resilience in the face of victimization and apocalyptic doom. The potency of these songs resides not in their grasping toward the heavens, seeking escape or transcendence, but rather from digging in the dirt, sitting with it, and really seeing the worms and rot and entropy in vivid technicolor. “This is about me, but I hope other people relate to it,” Scheider said. “I have all these emotional problems that make me react like a fucking monster, but that is also forged by my experience and there’s something there that I can be proud of, that’s part of my survival. I can’t just cut the head off – I have to integrate it into myself.”