Julia Jacklin - The Gem

The Australian artist’s fourth studio album sounds muted and nostalgic, inviting the listener to unravel the paradox of love and freedom.

Since making her debut on the indie scene a decade ago, Julia Jacklin has become one of Australia’s most distinctive singer-songwriters. Her music has always balanced tenderness with a blunt honesty that is often missing from the lyrics of her peers. Ten years on, Jacklin presents her fourth album, The Gem — a record made in a makeshift home studio and named after a Melbourne bar of the same name. What emerges is an intimate meditation on love, the search for freedom, and the complexities of human relationships.

The album feels as though it is being played right in front of you, in the same room. Take the opening track “Brand New”, which resembles a band warming up before a show: Jacklin sounds as though she is chirping directly into your ear, while during the verses her voice seems to drift in from the next room. On the more restrained “Angel Vision”, performed with nothing but an acoustic guitar, you can almost hear the footsteps and faint rustling of people passing through the hallway.

“God Sometimes”, which embraces the heavier textures of contemporary indie rock, feels like an unexpected piece of advice from your best friend arriving at exactly the right moment. Jacklin practically breathes faith into the listener, offering the reassurance and motivation to keep going: you can do anything, even when you’re convinced you can’t. “Real Life”, one of the album’s saddest songs, tells the story of a failed relationship, with Jacklin admitting that much of the blame lies with her. “Dreams still mean something even when you’re adult,” she sings, and it’s hard to disagree.

The Gem feels genuinely cozy and lived-in. The relaxed “If I Had The Hand Of God” sounds like something your parents might have played during a long car ride, while “The Hardest Thing”, with its nostalgic ’90s guitar lines, can unlock memories of watching a romantic comedy whose title has long since slipped your mind. At times, though, the album takes on a more unsettling shade. On the six-minute “Walk On Me”, Jacklin literally invites her lover to walk all over her — but asks him to turn off the lights so nobody can see.

The Australian artist’s fourth record brings together some of the strongest elements of her discography. Jacklin’s songwriting remains candid and deeply personal, while her new approach to recording creates an even more intimate listening experience. This is an album that makes you want to press pause on the world around you and simply savor the moment. Perhaps that, in the end, is what true freedom feels like.

7.3/10