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Jessica Viscius’s first album as Bnny, Everything, was written largely in the aftermath of the death of her partner Trey Gruber, a fellow Chicago singer-songwriter. That record oscillated between the fire of a messy relationship and the heart-stopping emptiness of grief via an inviting lo-fi sound that traversed slowcore, shoegaze, and ‘60s-style garage rock. One Million Love Songs, then, is a record about where life goes after devastating loss: The world keeps spinning, but a part of you is forever left behind.
Viscius herself has described the record as a “much lighter […] new era of Bnny”, and “Good Stuff,” the album’s lead single and biggest standout, reflects that. It centers on a breezy chorus, where acoustic guitar anchors a swooning layer of electric guitars and synth; Viscius’s vocals are sweet and cooing, dusted with harmonies. “I’m hanging on to the sunshine/ I’m hanging on ’til the next time/ I’m hanging on to the good stuff,” she sings. “Changes,” a dreamy, slow-dancey song about settling into new love, is similarly hopeful. “So happy I could scream,” Viscius declares before howling like a kid playing pretend: “Awoo!”
Yet while the album is indeed a lot less raw than Everything, its emotional landscape isn’t flat. Memories of the past are heavily felt, and the lyrical statements of hope exist either in defiance or deliberate ignorance of it. “The past keeps catching up,” she repeatedly insists on “Something Blue,” her voice low and strained over a murky bass. “The past keeps getting in the way,” she sings on “Rainbow,” the statement punctuated by a crash cymbal’s restless sigh. Painful memories frequently disturb moments of respite; opening track “Missing” resembles a tender love song until the last line delivers a gutpunch, with a hesitation and a resigned finality to their melody: “When I’m with you, I almost forget that he’s missing.”
Between albums, Viscius has refined Bnny’s sonic palette, her grasp on atmosphere tighter than ever. The cloud of thick reverb hanging over the sound gives everything a kind of spectral quality, bolstering that feeling of the unshakeable past. It’s as if these songs exist just outside of what’s real, teetering on the edge of waking life. This is most effective as the album opens on “Missing” to a field recording of bird sounds, some brightness to cut through the fugue. “Time is a strange thing/ The window is open, and I can hear the birds sing,” Viscius goes on to sing. There’s the tactile world, teeming with life and newness, and there’s the strange, hazy glow of the past. They both exist alongside each other, and neither one will let you forget it.
