Joyer

About

Distance has an uncanny ability to clarify feelings. It can offer an invigorating reset, reaffirming your capacity for love and renewing your sense of self. But if you surrender to its wisdom, you may not always like what it reveals. For Joyer, the east coast indie rock duo of brothers Nick and Shane Sullivan, distance has been a strange throughline as of late—distance from home, distance from each other, distance from a stable routine. Their latest LP, On the Other End of the Line…, ruminates on how stints in far-reaching places have affected them, uncovering anxieties and a burning desire for connection. But ultimately, it’s a hopeful reflection of two distinct perspectives on fluctuating backdrops and the pressures of creativity, filtered through hook-y earnestness and crunchy six-string bluster.

Since their previous full-length, Night Songs, arrived in 2024, both Nick and Shane relocated to different cities—Nick from Brooklyn to Philadelphia, and Shane from Boston to Brooklyn—and were tasked with settling into new versions of themselves. Plus, they were dealing with Joyer’s increasingly hectic tour schedule, traveling across the country with Horse Jumper of Love, Wishy, and villagerrr, to name a few. Nick was seeking healthier approaches to his on-the-road life and home life, navigating simultaneous feelings of guilt and anticipation. Meanwhile, Shane was grappling with a nagging loneliness in Boston, especially when he returned from tour, which prompted a move to be closer to friends and family. But through all the ups and downs, being on tour was life-affirming for Joyer—they met kindred spirits and grew closer as a band, and it sparked a desire for new material.

Eager to push the pop melodicism of Night Songs even further, Joyer began writing a new album, and they booked eight days in a Chicago studio with Henry Stoehr, having been fans of his catchy, detailed production style and guitar work in Slow Pulp. Feeling somewhat misunderstood by the response to Night Songs, they were also itching to dial back their shoegaze leanings in favor of folkier touches and less conventional, more ambitious arrangements. “Cure” and “Glare of the Beer Can” glisten with pastoral twang, while spidery rock rippers like “Favorite” and “Test” throb with fickle, explosive rhythms. This time around, Nick set out to compose more interesting drum parts, often skirting typical 4/4 beats and setting songs tastefully askew, and the band’s guitars have a richer, more intentional sound, thanks to plenty of time spent layering in acoustic guitar textures, blending tones, and re-tracking parts dozens of times. For reference points, they looked to noisy guitar pop groups like Velocity Girl and Helvetia who, like Joyer, live and die by coarse guitar thrums and front-and-center pop hooks. Perhaps the best encapsulation of this ugly-pretty dichotomy is “Spell,” where staticky, muscular guitar solos punctuate delicate vocal melodies.

Stoehr encouraged a more fun and exploratory recording process, which reminded the two-piece of Joyer’s pre-live-band days, spent making demos in their mom’s basement, sans deadlines. Nick and Shane came into the studio with demos that were intensely crafted across multiple state lines, but they were able to let go of initial ideas a lot more easily than on past records, in part because of a deep trust in their collaborators. To fill out On the Other End of the Line…, Nick and Shane recruited friends old and new. Bassist and longtime friend Jake Miller joined the band in the studio for the entirety of the sessions, providing dependable, deliciously tactile rhythms, as well as feedback and encouragement. In addition, vocalist and unofficial third member Sabrina Nichols (Shep Treasure) returned to supply tender backing vocals, having added such a noticeable warmth to Night Songs. And Chicago singer-songwriter Morgan Powers, who they shared a bill with on tour, quickly befriended during the recording process, and decided had to be part of the album, also contributed background vocals and graceful melodic depth.

Thematically, album opener “I Know Your Secret” throws you into the thick of their world, illustrating the eeriness of distance and familiar-yet-unfamiliar surroundings. It’s about the vivid dreams Nick had while sleeping in Shane’s childhood bedroom back in New Jersey. “I don’t know if it was because I thought Shane would be mad at me, or it was just the feeling of being in a less familiar room in the home I grew up in, but I would have these really weird dreams,” Nick says. “The one that really stuck with me was of someone climbing through the window and whispering, ‘I know your secret’ to me while I was sleeping.” But track two, “Cure,” is where the album gets its name—a beautifully poetic plea for connection, however brief or anonymous. “I wrote this one from the perspective of a made-up character, but it definitely has some personal feelings mixed in,” Shane says. “I was thinking a lot about how a small or seemingly inconsequential interaction with a stranger at a bar or a customer service worker over the phone can be meaningful.” Other cuts like “Something to Prove” and “Tell Me” wrestle with the doldrums of being an artist and touring musician, with the former centering on an obsessive urge to constantly create, and the latter anxiously lamenting how no matter whether you’re touring or at home, you tend to crave the opposite experience.

On the Other End of the Line… is Joyer at their most vulnerable, leaning less on imagery and abstractions and cracking the door to their bursting insides. “I give up and I try / But I know I'll be alright / When I walk down to your door / It can’t hurt me anymore,” Nick sings on the closing track “Tell Me.” Underpinning every line, from amusing Simpsons reference and evasive self-deprecation to self-destructive compulsion and moon-related yearn, is an appeal for connection, to have someone bear witness to your life—their reality piercing yours, and vice versa, no matter how casual or euphoric. The album title implies a desire for something more—as simple as a willing ear, and as towering as an undefined spiritual force. But, as the ellipsis indicates, we’re not capable of fully knowing what’s out there, or knowing someone else’s thoughts or intentions. More importantly, what On the Other End of the Line… surmises is that putting yourself out there is worth it. Being known is a scary, beautiful burden, but being unknown is to betray your desires and life itself.