B-Side Guys

Friendships die slowly, then all at once. This brutal truth powers Brooklyn-based Belle Shea’s latest release “Sundance Kid,” a disarmingly honest chronicle of that precise moment when you realize a once-foundational relationship has quietly eroded beneath your feet.

Released February 20th, this alt-pop confessional masterfully pairs deceptively aggressive instrumentation with Shea’s intimate vocal delivery, creating a visceral tension that mirrors the song’s emotional landscape. The South Florida native’s horse farm upbringing and classic rock influences shine through in her straightforward storytelling approach, while her contemporary pop sensibilities provide an accessibility that prevents the track from wallowing in its melancholy.

The narrative begins in medias res—”Now there’s no one here to talk to at my best friend’s party”—immediately establishing both setting and emotional stakes. When Shea continues with “I don’t know even know why I keep saying sorry,” she captures that peculiar guilt of outgrowing someone who once knew you completely. The Malibu Bacardi reference isn’t just colorful detail but purposeful metaphor: “Smiles are fake and sweet… They kinda hurt my teeth as they’re going down.”

The production builds purposefully around these observations. Growling guitars underscore frustrations that have clearly been bottled for too long, particularly in lines targeting peripheral annoyances that mask deeper wounds: “I can’t stand your boyfriend, he’s a selfish bitch/He dishes out opinions like they’re compliments.”

The chorus delivers the knockout punch, invoking Western outlaw mythology while simultaneously dismantling it: “Don’t call me kid/You were no Cassidy.” This Butch Cassidy reference brilliantly subverts the romanticized notion of ride-or-die friendship, acknowledging that most relationships aren’t sustained by dramatic shootouts but quietly deteriorate through mundane betrayals.

Perhaps most affecting is Shea’s reflection on shared rituals now abandoned: “Once there was a time we would go smoke on the roof/I’d be taking all your hits like I was bullet-proof.” The bulletproof imagery cleverly connects back to the Western metaphor while showcasing her vulnerability.

By the final verses, time itself becomes a character—”an illusionist” rather than “a thief”—suggesting that these relationship changes aren’t stolen moments but elaborate deceptions we participate in willingly. The production’s sunset-ride outro provides the perfect denouement, not as escape but as acceptance.

In “Sundance Kid,” Belle Shea has crafted something beyond a breakup song—it’s a eulogy for a friendship that deserves honest acknowledgment rather than quiet disappearance.