A Sophomore Album That Turns Heartbreak, Memory, And Hope Into Something Clear-Eyed
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Jessie Altman has a way of singing like she’s letting you in on a secret she’s only just finished making sense of. On Lovelight, her sophomore album, that intimacy feels sharpened, steadier, and more confident in its own skin. Across 12 tracks, Altman traces the mess and mercy of modern love: the ache of what was, the blur of what almost was, and the calm surprise of finding something better than the fantasy.
The record opens in a haze with Endlessly
, where memory hangs in the air like perfume on a jacket you meant to return. From there, Lovelight starts shedding weight. Your Own Good
and Indifference
carry the cool, clean break of someone who has finally stopped negotiating with what diminishes her. Altman doesn’t play heartbreak as a spectacle. She lets it sit there, plain and human, then moves on.
That forward motion gives the album its pulse. Barcelona
and Play It Cool
flicker with the rush of unexpected attraction, all nervous electricity and half-hidden smiles. Wanted
leans into surrender, while Reverie
drifts in a softer, dreamlike register, allowing feeling to exist without explanation. On Stay Away
and For The Hell Of It
, she gives in to the pull of desire with a kind of wry self-awareness that keeps the songs grounded even as they burn.
What makes Lovelight feel so lived-in is its patience. The album’s centre of gravity sits in its quieter songs, especially Slow Love
and Dancing in the Kitchen
, where grand declarations give way to the ordinary rituals that make affection last: shared silence, presence, the small gravity of staying. Altman understands that the most convincing love songs often sound like they were written at the end of a long day, with the kettle on and no one trying too hard.
Produced entirely by Sam Hollander, the album has a polished but warm frame, giving Altman’s soulful vocals room to glow without sanding off their edges. The production moves with a pop instinct, but it never crowds the songs. Instead, it leaves space for the details that matter: a glance, a pause, a line that lands a little too close to home. That balance suits the album’s emotional precision.
Altman puts it plainly: “This album traces the emotional arc of modern love. Sometimes you have to walk away from the wrong story before you can find the right one.” That idea runs through the record like a steady current. By the time Lovelight reaches What If
, it feels less like a question than a reckoning, one that honours the roads not taken without getting trapped inside them.
Jessie Altman gives these feelings time to breathe. Lovelight is tender, clear-eyed, and quietly assured, a record that understands the right love doesn’t shrink you. It expands the room.
Photo: Michael Konov. Cover art: Tre Koch.
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