Don’t Blink isn’t exactly a household name, but the Bandcamp diggers know: his catalog is sprawling, eccentric, and full of unexpected left turns. I came across Church almost by accident and ended up staying with it far longer than I anticipated. It’s the kind of album that doesn’t just play—it spirals, stutters, grooves, and glows.
It opens with “Over and Over,” a piano-laced meditation on the looping nature of love and loss. “What’s there left to say / that I haven’t said,” he asks, before answering himself, “I’ll say it again.” The lyrics toe the line between confessional and poetic, while the arrangement blooms from soft keys into a fuller ensemble—drums, synths, textures that arrive like memories returning in waves. It’s a song about repetition and impermanence that never feels static.
“Push Me, Pull You” shifts the mood. Still rooted in love, the track stretches into something more triumphant, buoyed by a deeply satisfying groove and a sustained organ that feels like sunrise hitting stained glass. The synth horns don’t just decorate the song—they animate it, each line adding a new shade to the emotional palette.
“Be Careful What You Wish For” plays like it’s been disassembled and put back together with a slight glitch in the matrix. The guitars and bass dance just off the beat, creating a tension that keeps you leaning in. Then comes “The Truth of You,” which clocks in at nearly nine minutes and earns every second. It’s another deep dive into groove-as-ritual—rhythms appear out of nowhere and then vanish just as quickly. The ideas connect loosely, sometimes abstractly, but the themes remain: love, loss, and whatever lies between.
By the time you reach “And A Bird Can Sing,” the record feels like it’s playing with your expectations. The rhythms land in strange but satisfying places, and once again, the bass playing is revelatory—bouncy, melodic, slightly cheeky. The title track, “Church,” is deceptively light, with a syncopated funk that belies the weight of its lyrics. And then there’s “Grey Skies,” a cryptic closer that namechecks Roy Cohen before unspooling into a reflection on power and decay. It's unexpected, but then again, so is most of Church.
What ties it all together is Don’t Blink’s willingness to follow ideas wherever they lead—grooves that stretch, lyrics that double back, songs that don't settle. Church feels like a living thing: restless, unpredictable, and full of strange beauty.
BANDCAMP
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