The dual senses of that word hang heavy in the title of this Sydney singer-songwriter’s second album, which ruminates on infatuations turned millstones over haunted Americana and garage rock. So yes: a barrel of laughs. But truly, in among the scab- and finger-picking and lines that creep into your ear and needle (“Do you still have that photograph? Would you use it to hurt me?” Jacklin wonders among the watercolour chord progressions of Body) are indeed blasts of bitter humour. In the rollicking You Were Right, reminiscent of Liz Phair or Courtney Barnett, she deftly skewers the sort of boyfriend who gets a kick out of “educating”, exulting in visiting his favourite restaurants and listening to his favourite bands alone and on her own terms.
It’s the ghostliest songs that’ll stay with you, though, from the soft piano and slo-mo catastrophe of When the Family Flies In to the obsessive elegy for a dying relationship in Don’t Know How to Keep Loving You, where Jacklin ponders “what if I cleaned up, what if I worked on my skin? I could scrub until I am red-hot weak and thin”. But it’s a weight that’s a pleasure to bear.
