With a voice equal parts honeyed and world-weary, Caitlin Rose sings self-aware songs of self-destruction, documenting proclivity and impulse control, bad habits in life and in romantic pursuits. Her albums brim with incisive, well-observed tracks full of searching vulnerability, ruminating on the things done to us and the various coping mechanisms and behaviors we adopt to feel in control in their wake. A standout staple of Nashville’s rock scene, Rose is “witty, brilliant company” (Pitchfork) and a “promisingly wry lyricist” (The Guardian) with a “wily and impressive blend of melancholy and cheek.” (New York Times) On CAZIMI, Rose boldly dismisses the preconceived idea of what a “Caitlin Rose Album” should be. Instead, she skips across genres, combining new wave influences like Elvis Costello and Magnetic Fields with the pop stylings of Katrina and the Waves and the melancholy Americana of David Berman and Silver Jews alike into one cohesive mix-tape. But rather than disjointed parts, these songs form a cohesive, robust whole, reflecting the multifaceted complexity of a fully-realized person—even if things had to be pulled apart and put back together a few times to get there.