Alabama Shakes
– Sound & Color
If their debut was a vintage muscle car roaring down a southern highway, Sound & Color is that same car floating through deep space, headlights cutting through a nebula. Alabama Shakes didn’t just sidestep the sophomore slump—they leapt into another dimension entirely. This album doesn’t settle into one sound. It shape-shifts. Soul, psychedelia, garage fuzz, R&B, and low-lit jazz all swirl together like they’re having drinks in the same smoky lounge. It’s loose in structure but tight in feel—held together by guts, intuition, and one hell of a vocalist.
Brittany Howard is the anchor and the storm. Her voice bends time. She doesn’t just sing—she inhabits every syllable like it’s fighting to exist. Whether she’s whispering at the edge of breaking or wailing through the mix like a preacher with a vision, she brings gravity to every track. And the band? Underrated magicians. They conjure textures instead of just laying down rhythm. Guitars shimmer or snarl. Keys drift or dive. The production feels warm but strange, like analog equipment channeling a fever dream.
There’s no obvious radio bait here. No pandering. It’s a record that trusts its listener to follow wherever it goes, even if the path curves sideways into a fog. It breathes, it expands, it surprises. One moment you’re in a soul revival, the next you’re spinning in zero gravity. Sound & Color isn’t background music—it demands your attention without ever begging for it. It’s as beautiful as it is weird, and that’s a rare thing.
Choice Tracks
Sound & Color
The opening title track sets the tone with a slow fade-in that feels like waking up inside a dream. It’s restrained but emotionally loaded—like someone’s whispering secrets into your headphones. The vibraphone floats, the bass hums low, and Brittany’s voice barely touches the ground.
Don’t Wanna Fight
Here’s where the groove bites hard. That falsetto? Sharp as a switchblade. The rhythm guitar grinds, and the whole thing pulses like a slow-motion dance floor in the middle of a breakdown. It’s funky, but haunted. Like James Brown trapped in a David Lynch film.
Gimme All Your Love
It starts tender, almost apologetic. Then out of nowhere, the whole thing explodes. Loud, messy, and soulful. Brittany doesn’t sing this one—she exorcises it. It’s the sound of someone clawing through their own skin just to be heard.
Future People
A strange little number that sounds like it was beamed in from a better, weirder planet. That vocoder harmony shouldn’t work. But it does. Somehow it sounds ancient and futuristic at once—like gospel with a motherboard.
Miss You
The final track, and it aches. It’s quiet. Empty in the best way. The band pulls back, and Brittany floats through the space they leave behind. It doesn’t build. It doesn’t explode. It just lingers—like something unresolved that you don’t really want to end.
Sound & Color isn’t trying to prove anything. It just exists on its own wavelength, daring you to tune in. It’s fearless, genreless, and damn near peerless—a slow-burning kaleidoscope of soul and static.