Sound Club Listening Guide
The Artist
The Courtneys are a Vancouver-based indie rock trio known for their scrappy, sun-bleached take on fuzz pop and jangle rock. Formed in the early 2010s, the band, drummer and lead vocalist Jen Twynn Payne, bassist Sydney Koke, and guitarist Courtney Loove, built their sound on breezy melodies, distorted guitars, and a distinctly Pacific Northwest slacker charm. Their self-titled debut earned them a devoted following in the DIY circuit, blending 90s alternative worship with a modern indie sensibility. The Courtneys II represents their sophomore effort and a notable career milestone: they became the first North American act signed to legendary New Zealand label Flying Nun. It cemented their reputation as torchbearers of a certain jangly, wistful guitar tradition.
The Album
Released in 2017 on Flying Nun, The Courtneys II was self-produced by the band in Vancouver, keeping their homespun aesthetic intact while sharpening the songwriting. The album embraces the label's Kiwi indie lineage, drawing sonic parallels to The Clean and The Bats while maintaining the band's own reverb-drenched identity. Recording choices favor a live-in-the-room feel: guitars stay chimey and buzzing, the rhythm section stays loose but propulsive, and Jen's drums-and-vocals combo remains the emotional anchor. Lyrically, the record dwells on longing, unrequited crushes, restlessness, and the peculiar melancholy of being young and untethered. It arrived four years after their debut, a patient follow-up that rewarded fans with tighter hooks and richer atmospheres.
Listen For
The opening jangle. "Silver Velvet" sets the tone with cascading guitar chime and a driving backbeat, a mission statement for the album's fuzz-pop worldview.
Drummer as frontperson. Jen Twynn Payne sings lead from behind the kit throughout the record, giving her vocals a breathy, unhurried quality that sits inside the groove rather than over it.
Pop culture as heartbreak metaphor. "Lost Boys" builds its longing around imagery borrowed from the 1987 vampire film, turning a movie crush into an emotional touchstone.
Aging out loud. Listen to "25" for its plainspoken meditation on quarter-life uncertainty, delivered with a shrug rather than a scream.
The long fade. "Frankie" closes the album by stretching out, letting guitars ring and repeat in a way that feels less like a finale and more like a slow drift into the horizon.
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