When Geese released 3D Country in 2023, it was a breath of fresh air for a genre growing increasingly gutless and reliant on algorithm slop, and it quieted the constant discussion of whether rock music had died. The album offered a revitalising novelty in the way it functionally and tastefully drew upon numerous shades, sounds, and ideas from eras of hard rock, blues rock, and classic rock. On Getting Killed, things haven’t changed much, except that, as Pitchfork aptly points out, vocalist Cameron Winter adopts a more desperate approach to the writing. As ugly a truth as that is, there is a sort of beauty in Cameron coming across as “needy” or “clingy”, and that beauty will be visible to you depending on whether you identify with the fears of these “upper-middle-class New York kids”. You’ve certainly seen their distinct, familiar dramas on past records—after all, if you’re a Geese fan, you most likely would have that “accidental” run-in with an ex on the street—and no less, will surely understand the genuine intentions behind this album.
It is not only in the writing that oozes self-pity in a way that is profound and familiar, but it’s also Winter’s slurred, straining delivery. Its vocal trill makes it feel like an indecipherable argument leaking through apartment walls while also suggesting the relaxed, familiar presence of a hippie band at your local cosy jazz bar. That’s not to mention the vocal being so deeply pained that listeners might well wonder if he recorded it right after a violent sobbing meltdown. Speaking of “violent sobbing meltdowns”, there is no better song to illustrate it than one of the album’s teasers, ‘Trinidad’. In spite of the first chorus being a gravelly, haywire scream of Winter screaming “THERE’S A BOMB IN MY CAR,” it stands out as virtually the only instance of overt recognisable frustration on an otherwise emotionally cathartic album, which is no less intriguing.
Then there’s ‘Taxes’, the other teaser single. While not as instrumentally explosive and cartoonish as ‘Trinidad’, the rush of emotions – grief, awe, despair, shame, relief – all click into place once Winter bursts out the stanza “And I will break my own heart / I will break my own heart from now on”. In the few YouTube videos online of the band performing this song, it is both hilarious that Winter is perhaps the only artist who can incite a crowd to sing about deserving to “burn in hell” and simultaneously poignant, suggesting a widespread, similar sentiment. While the tongue-in-cheek humour and satire that defined 2024’s 3D Country are still present, they carry a new, weighty gravitas. The wit has evolved into a coping strategy, similar to the inappropriate and spontaneous joke about one’s own mental health decline that someone might make during the first day of orientation.
The title of this record, Getting Killed, puts me in a bit of a cognitive quandary. Many are left wondering whether the suffering Winter describes across several tracks is inflicted upon him—the external source of his pain—or self-inflicted, an internal one. As it turns out, it’s a bit of both. In the suspiciously optimistic, albeit lightly used, “summer” jam, ‘Cobra’, Winter generously throws around two of the most endearing but overused words in pop music: “baby” and “forever”. Both are delivered with a sashay and stride so confident that it would instantly give Bottom G a run for his money. Lyrically, the track is about one lover enticing—even entrancing—the other, carrying a sexual undertone that likens the seduction to the flute tune played for a cobra. This idea is implied in stanzas like “You can get it on your own / You can make the cobras dance / But not me, yeah” and “There’s a cobra in my hand / She’s calling back again.”
But ultimately, however, most of the pain ends up being self-inflicted, with Winter consistently putting himself in positions of “being killed” on an album aptly titled Getting Killed. The track “Half Real” speaks directly to this sentiment with its amiss, hibernal guitar strumming. Winter focuses on the desperate need for proof of love within a past relationship—presumably one of the various flings he sings of in songs like ‘Cobra’. He goes as far as contemplating a lobotomy, willing to forget everything just to prove to an ex-lover that his affection is as complete as any of their current partners they’ve moved on with.
Let’s also not overlook the following: ‘Au Pays du Cocaine’, which is coated with a sweet, confectionary instrumental typically found in coming-of-age films set in suburban New Jersey. While there are obvious lyrical callbacks to ‘Cobra’, the meaning shifts. Instead of being an offering of perfect love, the stanza “you can stay with me” here is a desperate plea for compromise—more akin to straight-up begging—even as the subject of the song wishes to leave the relationship in order to “be free” like “a sailor in a big green boat.”
The tone Geese is striving for is clearly depressing, perhaps even upsetting, as it may hit close to home for many who have found themselves in the awkward situation of emotional attachment and unrequited feelings toward people they love or used to love. This resonance is likely one of the many reasons why Geese has maintained its broad appeal and won the hearts of listeners who have yet to dive deep into their discography. From blowing up on TikTok to receiving a co-sign from Cillian Murphy and recently performing on Jimmy Kimmel, it is bound to be a delight for fans, both new and old, to anticipate what the Brooklyn-based four-piece is up to next.
Words by Mishael Lee
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