On Something Shameful, Sarah Meth addresses the mess of casual relationships

Too often I cave in to Meta and revert to the mindless thumb-swinging that dominates so many of our lives, but every now and then a smart piece of writing gets lodged firmly in my mind. On a recent occasion, one such piece was The Cost of Casual Sex by Erin Williams of Critical Intimacies. I couldn’t tell you what drove me to this corner of Substack, but I’m glad I ended up there.

In the piece, Williams discusses the emotional and social toll of casual sex in heterosexual relationships for women in late-stage capitalism. She suggests that the stereotype of women catching feelings – a perfectly justifiable and normal reaction to intimacy and by no means an exclusively female phenomenon – is laden with contradictory binaries: be liberated but not too bothered, be easy-going but not careless. The result is a sense of loss after a casual encounter that is too often difficult to put into words.

All this was at the forefront of my mind when I sat down with Something Shameful, the confessional and insightful debut LP from London-born artist and producer Sarah Meth. Folk music was a significant part of her initial creative drive, but the album, inspired by a fateful encounter in New York, is steeped in Gen Z angst and the early ‘90s sounds of Seattle. With a characteristic self-awareness, honed across her several earlier EPs, Meth documents the ups and downs of cosmopolitan casualness in a bold and often fascinating way.

Opening the album, the title track encapsulates the spirit of the record, inviting thoughts of the bohemian ’60s implied by the "Norwegian Wood"-esque outro, which follows a guitar sound that brings to mind the Alice In Chains session for MTV Unplugged. That dichotomy – the liberation of the '60s juxtaposed with the lonely sound of lo-fi guitar work – ties together the themes explored by both Meth and Erin Williams: choices are made in earnest, but with confusing results.

On songs like “Cheek” and “Sonic”, Meth dispenses with the folk influences altogether. On the latter, the heavy fuzz of The Cranberries’ “Zombie” stands out as a touchstone, while the former features swampy bass of the kind that Krist Novoselic of Nirvana used to trade in. There's a diversion into synth too, for “He’s Not My Baby He’s Nepo’s” and “Care”. It's quite an about-turn, but one that's anchored by an undercurrent of Sunday scaries bedroom pop across both songs. Meth's voice on “Nepo’s” doesn’t so much whisper (so as not to disturb her housemates) as croon, as if she's swinging through a standard like “One For My Baby (And One More For The Road)”.

On “Fun”, I am most struck by the insight and honesty she offers in her words. Again drawing parallels with Williams’ article, the track explores the dissonance between wanting to be – and to be perceived as – ‘fun’ while the internalised pressures of being a woman seem to conjure feelings of shame instead. The personal freedom offered by no-strings-attached approaches to romance has in fact many strings attached, and Meth understands that more than most on this heart-on-sleeve debut.