There’s a lot going on inside Croak Dream, and not all of it lands. That doesn’t make it a failure, but it does explain why the record feels more interesting than it is satisfying. This is clearly a transitional album for Puma Blue (Jacob Allen), one that sounds like it was made while trying to get his footing back after a rough stretch.
Opener ‘Desire’ is a strange feint. For a moment, it feels like it’s gearing up for something smoother and more conventional, almost boyband-adjacent in its soft romanticism, before Allen undercuts that expectation with thin guitar tones and an atonality that unsettles rather than seduces. It’s an interesting choice, and one that sets the tone for an album that keeps promising immersion but rarely lets you sink in.
‘Mister Lost’ arrives early and feels underpowered for such a thematically loaded track. Lyrically, it takes aim at masculine inertia and the suffocation of patriarchal expectation, but the critique is delivered so plainly that it risks sounding like a rough draft of an idea rather than a fully worked song. Lines about being “just a cog” and “machines building machines” are conceptually sound, but the low-energy delivery and murky momentum make it feel more like an aside than a declaration.
That sense of falling just short recurs on ‘Hold You’, where Allen seems to be reaching for the haunted sensuality of Dummy-era Portishead or Mezzanine-period Massive Attack, but the vocal performance, all breath and mumble, never quite anchors the listener. The atmosphere is there, but it lacks weight.
Things improve markedly with the title track. ‘Croak Dream’ is the album’s strongest instrumental moment, its slow build carrying faint echoes of Bowie’s Black Star period without feeling derivative. ‘Heaven Above, Hell Below’ continues that upward turn, with a genuinely compelling vocal performance that teeters on the edge of collapse without tipping into excess. The decision to hold the beat back until the midpoint works beautifully, letting the tension do its work.
From ‘(Fool)’ onwards, the record finally starts to cohere. The lo-fi rhythms settle in, ‘Hush’ and ‘Jaded’ operate more as mood pieces than songs, and by the time you reach ‘Silently’ and ‘Cocoons’, Allen’s lyrical instincts feel more assured. ‘Silently’, in particular, handles regret and separation with restraint, its repeated imagery of disappearance and ghosting landing quietly but effectively.
Closer ‘Yearn Again’ is ambitious but frustrating. The writing’s often vivid and searching, but the vocal treatment, especially the artificial-sounding vibrato, distracts rather than deepens the emotion. It’s a song that wants to be cathartic and ends up slightly mild-mannered.
Croak Dream isn’t a failure, far from it. It’s a thoughtful, occasionally beautiful record. But for all its introspection and curious sound, it merely hints at something more arresting still to come. At its weakest, it feels like a necessary clearing of the throat before something sharper.
