In a December 2023 essay, songwriter Emily Sprague wrote about her fascination with “thin places”: times or places “where the barrier between our world and all that lies beyond it becomes porous,” often as a result of a near-death experience, a loss, or a creative flow state. “I think of magic as being always around us in these forms of the natural world and the mysterious things that occur within it,” she wrote. “We can’t harness it, but we can take part, witness, and be in awe.” On Jellywish, the fifth album from her indie-folk band Florist, Sprague expresses this sense of wonder through the worldly-yet-otherworldly avatar of the jellyfish. One of the most ancient life forms on Earth—predating the dinosaurs, they’ve been in existence for more than 500 million years—jellyfish are mysterious things indeed. They have no brains, yet they learn and have memories; their intricate nervous systems soak up sensory information through the entirety of their porous bodies. On Jellywish, the presence of this near-alien creature floats through Sprague’s lyrics as a constant reminder to always soak in the world around us with a sense of wide-eyed awe.
The “thin place” between two worlds is also represented by the punning of the record’s title: not just a jellyfish, but a jellywish, something even more intangible and ineffable. It’s an apt name for a record that’s grounded in the earthly, existentialist folk that characterized Florist’s previous releases, but also has a playful, almost hallucinogenic quality. In its most intimate moments, the album recalls Sprague’s starkly vulnerable 2019 solo outing, Emily Alone, but also weaves into its fabric a light touch of the ambient, electronic textures that filled the band’s 2022 self-titled record.
The small miracles of everyday life populate these songs. Sprague sees domestic life, familial love, and community through a sun-streaked lens on “Sparkle Song” and “Our Hearts in a Room.” But her lyrics mostly return to subjects she has revisited so many times that, on Jellywish, she also reflects on her weariness of talking about them: grief, death, and mortality. Here, though, even these topics are part of the record’s life-affirming warmth. This duality characterizes “This Was a Gift,” a bittersweet song about mourning and heartbreak as necessary seasons of love. The song begins deceptively simply, but gradually expands its horizons outwards. Though death is sprinkled throughout Sprague’s chanting chorus, she delivers it like a rallying cry, buoyed by a jubilant flourish of meandering electric guitar melodies.
