Juliana Hatfield is one of those truly great Gen X musical touchstones who remain as prolific and musically relevant now as she was at the height of her popularity in the 1990s. The longest stretch she’s gone without a solo album in more than 30 years was the four-year span between 2000 and 2004 (and in her defense, she was part of the trio Some Girls—alongside Freda Love and Heidi Gluck—during that period).
Rather than simply slapping a new coat of paint on the same album repeatedly, her output has been musically inventive, including two records devoted solely to the music of The Police and Olivia Newton-John, while still claiming a distinctly unique ‘Juliana Hatfield sound.’ So, it should not be a surprise to those who have kept up with her music that her latest, Lightning Might Strike, is another perfectly crafted set of sometimes-jangly, sometimes–moody indie pop.
For those who bailed on her music sometime after the mid-’90s Only Everything, “Fall Apart,” the opening track off her latest album, will bring you right back to the charming hallmarks of her songwriting. It’s a strongly self-aware, wryly written, self-effacing song about unraveling emotionally, set to a steady, subtle pop-rock soundtrack. Over nearly a dozen tracks, she repeats a somewhat similar formula that—far from sounding repetitive—is impressively varied musically (you can pick up on the theme from song titles like “Long Slow Nervous Breakdown,” “My House Is Not My Dreamhouse,” and “Strong Too Long”).
The driving, upbeat sound of “Popsicle” belies its lyrics. The song is a sharply funny bummer tale about getting what you deserve (“My hopes and dreams are in decline / melting slowly like my mind / Popsicle, drip, drip”). It’s Gen X in a nutshell: darkly funny, brutally honest, and allergic to emotional fuss. And lest you think Lightning Might Strike wallows in self-pity, a song like “Scratchers,” vacillating from minor to major (both musically in chords and in outlook), offers hints of optimism—though only in appropriately measured moments. The song captures a lot of what makes her music so appealing: she is genuine without being earnest.
The album closes with “All I’ve Got,” one of its strongest tracks—and the one that feels least like anything else on the record. It’s a stripped-down acoustic piece about having that one thing—never defined as a person, a pet, or something internal—to turn to when you’re scared, lonely, or hurting. After all the snark, self-effacement, and emotional guardedness that precede it, “All I’ve Got” lands with a genuine tenderness that makes the album feel emotionally honest.
