Eric Schroeder doesn’t just make albums—he exorcises demons. Cat’s Game, his new full-length, is the sound of a songwriter shedding skin, trading the jangly introspection of Turned On the Stereo for a leather-jacketed, amplifier-worshipping rebirth. This is garage rock at its most visceral—a collection of songs that feel less recorded than unearthed, raw and bleeding with the kind of urgency most artists spend careers chasing.
Gone are the nervous, sprawling meditations of Schroeder’s past work. In their place: ten tracks of concentrated fire, each one a masterclass in tension and release. Produced by indie legend Rob Schnapf (Elliot Smith, Kurt Vile) and engineered by bassist Matt Scheussler, the album captures the sweat-and-whiskey energy of Schroeder’s live shows while sharpening his songwriting to a lethal point. The arrangements—built around his newly embraced electric guitar obsession—are deceptively simple, leaving room for every distorted riff and pummeling drum fill to land like a sucker punch.
In “Emily,” his lyrics speak to a lost love, as he sings, “I long to be where the colors tease, and her love concedes,” with wounded swagger benefitting the paradoxical paradise of psychic devotion. There’s a unique form of bittersweet American poetry in Schroeder’s ability to make you feel the weight of longing with every lancing line.
“Don’t Wanna Let You Go” captures a similarly uncapturable feeling, a yearning that cuts deep, as Eric beseeches, “Am I just a child when it comes to playing your silly games?” If all the world’s a stage, does any of us ever stop playing the fool? It’s a triumph of vulnerability and desperation, a loving power struggle tender and cruel, immortalized in its perfect imperfections through tight hooks and a relentless rock spirit.
“Leave Me Sleeping” showcases Schroeder’s ability to channel loneliness into something hauntingly beautiful, as he repeatedly pleads, “Leave me sleeping, leave me sleeping,” pining for the radiant safety of his dreams while accepting his inevitable return to Earth’s atmosphere, knowing he could burn.
What makes Cat’s Game so thrilling is its refusal to apologize for its own messiness. These songs are alive, buzzing with the chaotic energy of Schroeder’s creative breakthrough. His lyrics, always poetic, now cut deeper, balancing self-laceration with a strange, hard-won joy. The album’s title feels like a mission statement: life’s a rigged game, so you might as well play by your own rules.
Cat’s Game isn’t just Schroeder’s best work yet; it’s a rallying cry for guitar rock in an overproduced era. Raw, relentless, and bleeding with soul, it proves sometimes the only way forward is to crank the volume and burn the past down. Connect With Eric Schroeder on Instagram and Spotify
