Benjamin Booker’s 'Lower' redefines his sound with bold experimentation

The singer-songwriter blends lo-fi folk, noise-rock, and electronica in his most adventurous album yet.

Benjamin Booker performs at the 2018 Coachella Valley Music and Arts Festival at the Empire Polo Club in Indio, California, on April 21, 2018. Photo by Frazer Harrison/Getty Images

By Novanka Laras and Adila Ghina

After releasing his self-titled debut album in 2014, singer-songwriter Benjamin Booker seemed poised for a career rooted in blues-infused garage rock. With catchy melodies and a raw sound, he shared a label and producer with Alabama Shakes, a rising act in a similar vein. Booker even toured as an opener for Jack White, a perfect match for his aesthetic, and recorded a live vinyl album for White’s label. His 2017 follow-up, Witness, added soulful elements, including a guest feature from Mavis Staples, suggesting that Booker might align with retro-soul artists like Black Pumas and Leon Bridges.

However, much like Alabama Shakes’ Brittany Howard, Booker has proven himself an artist unwilling to be confined by genre expectations. His latest album, Lower (Fire Next Time), is the product of a restless creative spirit, blending lo-fi folk, noise-rock, and experimental electronica. Crafted during the COVID-19 pandemic while Booker was living in Australia, the album is a collaboration with Los Angeles-based producer Kenny Segal. Known for his work with underground rappers like Busdriver and Open Mike Eagle, Segal has a distinct production style, reminiscent of Madlib, that transforms forgotten vinyl samples into textured, atmospheric beats. The fusion of Booker’s songwriting and Segal’s sonic experimentation results in a strikingly original album.

At first glance, Segal’s involvement might suggest a shift toward hip-hop, but Lower remains grounded in Booker’s songwriting roots. Traditional song structures persist, with clear verses and choruses, even as the production distorts and deconstructs familiar instrumentation. Booker and Segal draw inspiration from genres where glitches and noise take center stage—lo-fi folk, industrial rock, and avant-garde electronica. The album’s opener, Black Opps, sets the tone with layers of tape hiss, thin and trebly guitar, and an industrial-style drum break.

Lyrically, the album’s first half is raw and tense, capturing characters in moments of desperation. In a recent interview, Booker cited filmmaker Paul Schrader as an influence, particularly his portrayals of protagonists pushed to their limits. That theme runs through songs like Lwa in the Trailer Park, where Booker’s near-whispered vocals ride over a pulsating bassline and distorted guitar. His lyrics—“No one will ever love me / I see the way they talk about people on this side of town”—suggest a deeply personal connection to the stories he tells, possibly reflecting his own upbringing in working-class Florida.

Pompeii Statues furthers the album’s disoriented atmosphere, built on detuned instruments and eerie sampled sounds. The song’s junkyard folk aesthetic, with an off-pitch acoustic riff, reinforces its themes of displacement. Booker’s lyrics depict figures struggling to survive in the margins of society: “Passing the tents on concrete, needles and bottle shards / Making a way through the city, Queen of Angels.”

In contrast, Slow Dance in a Gay Bar is a more intimate character study. The song follows someone learning to embrace their sexuality, finding beauty in self-acceptance. “I am beginning to see the beauty all around me / What this life can be,” Booker sings, his voice both hopeful and wary. The slow, spaced-out production recalls the atmospheric work of slowcore bands like Duster, creating a delicate balance between vulnerability and underlying tension.

Despite its experimental nature, Lower retains an emotional arc. The album shifts from bleak isolation to moments of connection and resilience. Booker’s knack for melody remains intact, surfacing in the more hopeful tracks on the record’s second half. Same Kind of Lonely is built on clashing, dissonant instrumentation—like bumper cars colliding—yet its keyboard melody carries echoes of The Cure’s brooding romanticism. The instantly memorable chorus provides a much-needed lift after the album’s heavier themes.

Show and Tell comes closest to a conventional love song but remains true to Lower’s aesthetic, with bursts of guitar distortion punctuating its dreamy mood. The album’s closer, Hope for the Night Time, offers a hushed, melancholic conclusion. It tells the story of an alcoholic struggling to change, set against a backdrop of faint sequencer blips and a lazy drumbeat. Booker’s voice is at its most soulful, delivering a haunting reflection on failure and redemption.

For listeners unfamiliar with lo-fi aesthetics, Lower may take some adjustment. The production is deliberately rough, with crackling static and ghostly echoes making each track feel like it’s barely holding together. But those who stick with it will discover an album that redefines Benjamin Booker as an artist willing to challenge both himself and his audience. Lower is not just his most adventurous album—it may be his best.