There are albums that politely knock. And then there’s Singing to Serpents, which kicks in the door, raids your liquor cabinet, and starts confessing sins you didn’t even know you had.
Cello—poet, actor, emotional exhibitionist-in-residence—has made a record that feels less like a collection of songs and more like a long night you’re not sure you survived. This isn’t genre music. It’s psychic spillage. It’s bedroom trap, alt-R&B, spoken-word mania, and spiritual panic duct-taped together and set on fire.
“Stay Here” opens the album like a cracked diary entry read over 808s. Swerving traffic, middle fingers to authority, lust masquerading as salvation—it’s romance as collision sport. The hook pleads, “Won’t you stay here?” but it sounds like a dare. Like if she doesn’t, the walls might start bleeding.
Then comes “Elevate,” which talks big—lords, swords, cold stakes, faith up—but the bravado keeps slipping on emotional black ice. You can hear the insecurity under the flex. That’s the trick of this album: ego and fragility are dancing cheek to cheek. One second he’s untouchable; the next he’s begging not to be replaced.
https://open.spotify.com/artist/15n465JYsWzF8jHsigpYbh?si=0b371140b8644869
“Sucks to Be Used” is the bitter pill at the center. “It’s hard to be me, but it sucks to be you.” That’s not just a hook—it’s a worldview unraveling. It’s toxic, sure, but it’s also wounded. Cello doesn’t sanitize his worst instincts; he puts them on blast. He admits he lies. He admits he’s drunk. He admits he might rather be dead than stuck in the wrong love. That’s ugly honesty, and rock ‘n’ roll has always thrived on ugly honesty.
Midway through, “Pray” and “Faith” twist spirituality into something sweaty and unstable. God is invoked like a rival, like a lover, like a mirror. Doubt becomes the loudest instrument in the mix. When he repeats, “I need strong faith in my abilities,” it doesn’t sound triumphant—it sounds desperate. Like someone gripping the edge of the sink at 3 a.m.
“Full Moon” is pure lycanthrope energy. Love as habit. Habit as curse. Bottles poured out like offerings to whatever’s howling outside. And by the time you hit “Sleeping,” the album softens—not into peace, but into exhaustion. It’s the comedown. The quiet after the storm in his head.
Singing to Serpents doesn’t resolve. It writhes. It circles. It exposes. Cello isn’t trying to be cool—he’s trying to survive himself. And in an era of algorithm-friendly polish, that kind of volatility feels almost dangerous.
Which is to say: it feels alive. The LP drops on March 1st.
–Lex Baxter