B-Side Guys

Darkness rarely receives positive reframing. In our cultural shorthand, it typically represents fear, uncertainty, or endings. On “To a Better Dark,” Kevin Koplar inverts this association—suggesting that shadows might contain unexpected comfort, that absence can be presence in disguise. Across ten meticulously crafted tracks, Koplar doesn’t merely acknowledge darkness but illuminates its contours, creating a forty-minute journey that traverses both external landscapes and internal topographies.

The album opens with “If You Knock Hard Enough,” establishing Koplar’s singular approach to arrangement. What begins as spare folk gradually accumulates instrumental layers—drums that enter not with declaration but suggestion, harmonies that appear like condensation on glass, strings that provide emotional counterpoint rather than mere embellishment. This patient building creates a sense of discovery, as if the song itself is being uncovered in real time rather than performed.

Koplar’s collaborators from LA’s music scene prove essential to the album’s textural richness. Chris Cosgrove’s percussion throughout the record demonstrates remarkable restraint, particularly on “Blood Sugar,” where his playing creates a heartbeat-like pulse that grounds Koplar’s more ethereal vocal explorations. Similarly, Rick Wood’s contributions add harmonic complexity without overwhelming the fundamental intimacy of the compositions.

“Broken Breeze” emerges as an early standout, showcasing Koplar’s gift for creating immersive emotional environments. The track’s string quartet arrangement deserves particular recognition, avoiding the saccharine quality that often accompanies folk-orchestral fusions. Instead, the strings function almost cinematically, creating visual suggestions through purely aural means. When Koplar sings about memories returning unexpectedly, the strings don’t simply illustrate—they evoke the physical sensation of remembering.

The album takes an intriguing turn with “Love Lies & Lust,” where Koplar introduces subtle funk elements that might initially seem at odds with the record’s folk foundations. Yet this sonic departure never feels jarring, due largely to production choices that maintain tonal consistency even as rhythmic and harmonic approaches shift. The track’s exploration of relationship complexities benefits from this musical tension, creating productive friction between lyrical content and sonic presentation.

“Give This Song to Daniel” represents the album’s emotional center, a direct address that transforms the listener into eavesdropper. The song’s spare arrangement—primarily voice and guitar with minimal embellishment—creates an intimacy that borders on uncomfortable, as if we’re witnessing a conversation never meant for public consumption. This sense of private communion illustrates Koplar’s understanding that the most universal emotions often emerge from highly specific experiences.

The album’s second half introduces more experimental elements, particularly on “Autopsy Turvy,” where conventional song structure gives way to something more exploratory. The playful title belies the track’s gravity—an examination of endings that refuses easy resolution. Koplar’s willingness to subvert expectations here reveals artistic courage, prioritizing authentic expression over accessibility without sacrificing melodic foundation.

“Emiley” provides necessary lightness after these heavier themes, employing a walking tempo and major-key brightness that feels like emerging from a dense forest into unexpected clearing. The track’s narrative specificity creates a character so fully realized that listeners might find themselves wondering if Emiley is fictional or drawn from Koplar’s actual experience—a testament to his storytelling prowess.

The penultimate “Tugboat” pulls the album’s various strands together, combining the folk foundations established early with the more adventurous approaches explored in later tracks. The resulting synthesis demonstrates that Koplar’s genre-blending isn’t merely stylistic tourism but rather the creation of a singular musical language—one where funk, folk, and pop elements communicate rather than compete.

Closer “Laugh Alone” initially seems to contradict the album’s trajectory toward acceptance of darkness. Yet as the track unfolds, it becomes clear that Koplar isn’t suggesting hollow optimism but rather acknowledging that joy and solitude aren’t mutually exclusive. The arrangement gradually strips back to essentials, creating a circular return to the album’s opening spareness that suggests completion rather than conclusion.

Throughout “To a Better Dark,” Koplar demonstrates rare confidence in his listeners’ patience and intelligence. There are no attention-grabbing gimmicks or algorithmic concessions—just carefully crafted songs that reveal additional layers with each listen. The production, credited to Gremlin Garage Records, maintains remarkable cohesion across the album’s stylistic explorations, creating a sonic environment that feels simultaneously familiar and fresh.

What ultimately distinguishes Koplar’s work is his relationship to the outsider perspective referenced in the album’s accompanying materials. Rather than romanticizing marginality or wallowing in alienation, he examines the outsider experience with nuance and occasionally unexpected humor. This approach transforms potential self-pity into genuine insight, creating connections through the very acknowledgment of disconnection.

“To a Better Dark” offers no easy answers or artificial resolutions. Instead, it suggests that meaningful light emerges not from denial of darkness but from deeper engagement with it—that by examining shadows more carefully, we might discover they contain their own form of illumination. In an era of manufactured brightness and forced positivity, Koplar’s willingness to explore twilight territories creates a listening experience that feels not only refreshing but necessary.