B-Side Guys

Open Foe builds his playhouse on unstable ground. What starts as soft and romantic—the sonic equivalent of domesticity’s gentler promises—quickly reveals its foundation: masks breaking into glass shards, chewed wires, rusted strings. “Playhouse” doesn’t just hint at dysfunction beneath suburban normalcy; it documents the precise moment when pretending becomes the only viable option left.

The Queensland musician’s philosophy of seeking ugly sounds to create unconventional beauty finds its perfect vehicle here. The art rock framework allows for dissonance to live alongside melody, creating a sonic uncanniness that mirrors the lyrical content. When Open Foe sings about squinting eyes until ceiling holes become skylights, it’s both metaphor and survival strategy—the willful distortion of reality required to continue building something you know is fundamentally compromised.

There’s an uncomfortable intimacy in the imagery of being bound to a frame, a tired limb made static. The relationship described operates through performance and complicity, both parties “in on the joke” even as the joke stops being funny. The repetition of “I’m almost home” carries a threat as much as a promise, while the directive to act surprised suggests a script both participants have memorized but continue performing anyway. Seth Quinn’s vocal delivery enhances this duality—tender enough to pass for affection, detached enough to reveal the cracks.

What makes “Playhouse” genuinely unsettling is its final image: boarding up the windows when pursued, choosing shared delusion over external reality. The tools mentioned—spirit level, Leatherman—are instruments of construction, but here they’re deployed to maintain an illusion rather than build something structurally sound. The phrase “just play house” becomes increasingly sinister with each repetition, transforming from childhood innocence to adult desperation.

Open Foe’s approach to ugliness-as-beauty never feels academic or calculated. The dissonant elements emerge naturally from the material’s emotional core, creating a listening experience that feels simultaneously beautiful and wrong—which is exactly the point. At 25, the Australian artist has already developed a distinct sensibility, one that understands how closely romance and unease can coexist when examined honestly. “Playhouse” isn’t interested in comfort. It’s interested in what happens when comfort becomes the most dangerous lie we tell ourselves.