Coral Grief, the Seattle rock trio, and Air Between Us, its debut album, are accurately named. The first notes from Sam Fason’s guitar on opener “Starboard” hit like a blast of sea air to the face. In just seconds, you’re soaring, equal parts under the sky and above the sea. It’s a similar in-between where Coral Grief thrives, as they construct elaborate webs of double meanings across this tribute and eulogy to their city and community.

Singer and bassist Lena Farr-Morrissey, who grew up in South Seattle, knows that being impacted by a changing hometown isn’t unique, but doesn’t shy away from getting sentimental. In her words, “My good old city is someone’s nasty new one, and people will always lament what it used to be. Every time you leave and return home, it’s like a funhouse mirror. It’s not better or worse, it’s just different.” In these songs, she fixates on bygone places—the Baskin-Robbins of her childhood, the DIY show spaces she frequented in high school, the fish market (delightfully called Mutual Fish)—unceremoniously disappeared, inevitably replaced by box houses and brick facades. “It’s all changed but the name,” she sighs, her voice just as honeyed as it is clinical, on “Avenue You.”

All that said, her obsessions don’t for a moment turn gloomy. Farr-Morrissey and Fason are linked by the psychic chemistry one can only unlock by playing together in bands for years. Fason’s guitar is the sail to Farr-Morrissey’s anchor, and here, he crafts textures thick as sheets of wind. Tying it all together—the engine in this nautical metaphor—is drummer Cam Hancock, who came highly recommended by mutual friends. His propulsive playing serves as a bridge of ideas, their final puzzle piece, a master of dynamics and transitions that shoves their songs into new territory without showing off. Together, they draw inspiration from Stereolab, Broadcast, Th’ Faith Healers, and Seefeel, to name just a few, reframing that very specific strain of British cool in a uniquely Pacific Northwest way.

To bring the songs to life, the trio decamped to The Unknown–a decommissioned church turned sail manufactory turned recording studio in Anacortes. Working with engineer Nich Wilbur on a diet of five matchas a day, the workspace became their workshop. “We were committed to the three piece way of doing things, but wanted to make it sound as lush and as full as possible,” Fason explained. Farr-Morrissey was pushed to let go of her perfectionism as Wilbur challenged them to tighten their songs and find new angles on their quest for perfect roomsound.

“Starboard” was one such happy accident. Its jagged saltair gives way in a matter of seconds to Farr-Morrissey’s gentle alto, an instrument that instantly tempers Fason’s sandpaper chords and the dance of Hancock’s snare, never squandering its momentum. The urban and the nautical stay intertwined throughout; you can hear the opening riff of “Rockhounds” skip like a stone as Farr-Morrissey describes the struggle of searching for beauty in the everyday, likened to finding agates on the beach. It resonates again in the motorik of “Mutual Wish,” where she puts it plainly: “Sweetest spots are gone, can you make it up to me?”

“Latitude” gives the band room to unspool, inspired by words said by Fason’s grandmother: “I go behind the door to change my mind,” Farr-Morrisey sings, the band swirling around her, traveling far from the confines of Texas into someone’s interior world. Fason’s guitar shimmers over some of Hancock’s most spacious and inviting playing, showcasing everything the ensemble does so well in four minutes.

On “Paint By Number,” the band floats from verse to chorus effortlessly, giving the rhythm section the opportunity to stretch out. Locked in with Hancock, whose tom hits shove the song along on its way, Farr-Morrissey uses call and response to fill in the blanks as she asks of the increasingly bleak landscape around her, ever so playfully, “Disaster, back together, what is worth our breath?” It’s a pop of color where you don’t expect, jutting across lines you never knew were there.

They stay contemplative throughout, most decisively on album closer “Almost Everyday,” a farewell to Seattle’s Everyday Music, the record store where Farr-Morrissey worked until it closed in 2021. “Eyelids of an era, ever obscuring / I’ll just be passing by, almost everyday,” she sighs, she and her bandmates equal parts outsiders and lifers in the place they know (and knew) so well.

Across these songs, the good ship Coral Grief takes you on a journey inspired by their travels and yours, whether it’s across neighborhoods in their hometown, the neverending freeways of America on tour, or simply a walk to nowhere. Everything is ready to reveal itself–all you have to do is know where to look.

Air Between Us will be released on July 18th, via Suicide Squeeze Records, Anxiety Blanket Records, and Den Tapes.