In the opening moments of ‘Arrow of Love,’ the third full-length dispatch from Oakland’s Hectorine, a marimba clinks with the delicate precision of falling glass. It is a deceptively light introduction to an album that functions as a sophisticated chronotopic map of a personal underworld. Following 2021’s ‘Tears’ (Paisley Shirt Records), Sarah Gagnon has traded the folk-leaning intimacy of her earlier work for a more expansive, art-rock synthesis that feels both retro and remarkably immediate. Gagnon frames the album through the atavistic myth of the Sumerian goddess Inanna, who stripped away her royal vestments to face death and rebirth in the abyss.
For Gagnon, this wasn’t merely a literary exercise but a case study in surviving a chthonic winter. The record captures the telluric weight of a period defined by wildfires, isolation, and the dissolution of a relationship, an agon of mutual martyrdom between lovers that mirrors Inanna’s trial. Musically, ‘Arrow of Love’ is a distillation of high-concept 80s aesthetics. If you hear echoes of Christine McVie’s velvety contralto or the obsidian sheen of Bryan Ferry’s ‘Boys and Girls’, it’s by design. Working with producer Geoff Saba, Gagnon utilized a Korg Wavestation to create gauzy, analog-washed textures that bridge the gap between medieval folk and ‘Tango in the Night’-era pop.
“Is Love an Illusion?” is a shimmering opener that asks the record’s central question over smart, pulsing synth patterns. “No Hallelujah”: The stately near-march of “No Hallelujah” serves as a sage counterpoint to Leonard Cohen. It is a track defined by poignant restraint, evoking the image of a martyr like Joan of Arc. Despite its origins in an enforced solitude, “Everybody Says” blossoms into a luminous lament, featuring a soaring saxophone solo that provides a necessary emotional release. “Take a Chance with Me” is the record’s zenith of hope. It is a “Wall of Sound” for the modern era, brightened by 12-string guitars and a celestial glockenspiel. The album concludes with “Slip Through My Fingers,” a song inspired by a breakup letter from Joni Mitchell to Graham Nash. It is a shimmering resolution that avoids a trite happy ending. Instead, it leans into a wistful ambiguity, reminding the listener that while Inanna (and Gagnon) may have emerged from the gates of hell, the traces of that journey remain.
‘Arrow of Love’ is an exquisitely wrought elegy for a past self. By layering ancient myths over hyper-processed modern anxieties, Hectorine has created a touchstone for anyone currently navigating their own crisis. It is an immersive, 40-minute voyage that proves rebirth is rarely a straight line, but often a beautiful, haunting circle.
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