Molly Rankin may not remember our last interview in 2017, but she does remember how to make a noise-pop classic. Alvvays' latest album Blue Rev is everything their fans could hope for: shimmering, spiky, secretly devastating, and full of the kind of references that only pop nerds, jangle-rock heads, and CD-ROM hoarders would appreciate.
“I felt like we were going off the deep end,” Rankin confesses, which, in her case, means recording two-minute pop songs that sound like lost relics from a parallel 1986. “We had been sitting with these songs for so long that I couldn’t tell if they were just these weird, idiosyncratic artifacts no one else would connect with.” Spoiler alert: everyone connected.
But Blue Rev isn’t just a nostalgia trap. It’s a deeply self-aware, gloriously hooky act of emotional sleight of hand—one that Rankin calls “poking fun at yourself when you’re feeling melodramatic.” She likens the sound to being an “old person searching for forgotten media,” which is only partly a joke. “I like things that sound fuzzy and worn around the edges,” she says, “as opposed to something huge and pristine.”
Take “Very Online Guy,” the album’s internet-era character sketch that nearly fell apart in the studio—until it didn’t. “Alec ran the second chorus through a chorus echo, and it bent the pitch so I was singing in all these weird registers,” she laughs. “I thought it was funny at first, and then I was like, ‘Oh no, we could never recreate that chaos.”
That chaos is the point. Alvvays doesn’t chase polish—they chase energy. On “Pomeranian Spinster,” the vocal take is literally a one-off rehearsal that Rankin, mid-beer, shout-sang into existence. “We didn’t even know it existed until months later,” she says. “There was no way to beat it. It had to go on the album.”
Blue Rev revels in that kind of accidental magic—songs that feel off-the-cuff but are secretly airtight. “Pressed” might be their Smiths-iest moment yet, all jangly guitars and mopey wit, but it’s “REM stew,” too. “We were definitely channeling REM on the chorus,” Rankin admits. “I think they’re probably my all-time favorite band.” (She said this on Michael Stipe’s birthday. Coincidence? Maybe. Fate? More likely.)
Rankin is a nostalgia hunter by nature—her idea of fun includes tracking down old computers to use in music videos, or hoarding ancient show posters for their vintage typography. “Even the logos were better,” she says. “There’s something about the colors and textures—they had more soul.”
But don’t let the aesthetic fool you into thinking Alvvays is trapped in the past. Blue Rev ends with “Fourth Figure,” a sort-of-secret track that wraps the whole record in emotional gauze. “It’s like the cans are rolling around at the end of a dance,” Rankin says. “You can’t do secret tracks anymore, not with streaming. But I liked the idea of a quiet conclusion.”
There’s also the question of mystery, something Alvvays maintains with freakish discipline in an era where most artists are practically live-streaming their dental appointments. “You do have to be around, to some extent,” she says. “But we just try to avoid overt branding or sponsored stuff. It feels gross.” And yet, somehow, their elusiveness only adds to the charm. “It’s funny to hear there’s an air of mystery,” Rankin says. “From this side, it’s just… life.”
Asked if they’d ever consider doing a full-album cover, Rankin doesn’t miss a beat: “Maybe The Primitives. Or Lush. Give us 15 years—we’ll be a full nostalgia act by then.”
Let’s hope not. Right now, Alvvays are exactly where they need to be—singing about insecurity with swagger, channeling heartbreak through reverb, and making the kind of records that already feel like classics.
Listen to the interview above and then check out the video below.
