Waxahatchee
Out in the Storm

On Out in the Storm, Katie Crutchfield finally plugs in and lets it all burn down in real time. This is the sound of a breakup not reflected upon, but lived through with the windows rolled down and the volume reckless. It’s louder than her past records, sure, but the volume doesn’t hide a thing—it just gives her enough space to yell the truth without apology.

Waxahatchee - Out in the Storm (2017)
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Gone is the lo-fi haze. Instead, there’s a punchy clarity to these songs that feels both liberating and dangerous. Crutchfield’s voice, raw and cracking in all the right places, cuts through with purpose. She’s not whispering anymore—she’s declaring. And while the band (a tight, muscular unit here, aided by Sleater-Kinney’s touring guitarist Katie Harkin) keeps things hooky and propulsive, they never crowd her. Every guitar line, every drum snap, serves the purge.

But it’s not just a scorched-earth breakup album. It’s about finding shape in the wreckage, identity in solitude, and clarity in chaos. Crutchfield doesn’t pretend healing is tidy. She lets the mess stay visible. And in doing so, she makes Out in the Storm feel less like an indie rock record and more like a late-night phone call to your oldest friend.

Choice Tracks

Never Been Wrong

Opens like a hammer to the chest. Guitar fuzz, steady beat, and Katie’s voice cutting straight through regret and pride. It’s accusatory without self-pity—an anthem for realizing you let someone take too much.

Silver

Bouncy in the way defiance often is. There’s joy hidden in this guitar line, and Crutchfield rides it like someone who knows exactly what she’s escaping. Infectious, relentless, and deceptively upbeat.

Recite Remorse

The slowest burn on the record. Sparse, echoey, and emotionally scalpel-sharp. Crutchfield nearly whispers her lines like she’s tiptoeing around her own scars. It’s not fragile—it’s fearless in its restraint.

Brass Beam

Built like a sneer with teeth. The guitars churn beneath a vocal delivery that sounds like it’s tired of being polite. This is one of those deep cuts where frustration becomes catharsis.

Fade

The closer that doesn’t soothe, but surrenders. It’s dreamy, drawn out, and sounds like someone walking away for good—not in triumph, but in peace. The kind of ending that lingers long after the last chord.


Out in the Storm isn’t just a breakup album. It’s a document of self-preservation—loud, vulnerable, and utterly human. Waxahatchee doesn’t offer closure. She offers truth. And it stings in all the best ways.