If Remi Wolf’s earlier records were kaleidoscopes of maximalist, funk-inflected indie pop and surrealist lyrics, Mud marks a shift to something more mature and earthy—quite literally, with the album cover presenting the California-born singer-songwriter beaming through a sludgy mask of literal mud.
After a year that saw Wolf release her terrific sophomore album, Big Ideas; boost her own tour with an opening slot for Olivia Rodrigo; but also suffer a major breakup and become totally burned out, the seeds of the new record were planted during a two-week retreat in Nashville in late 2024, where Wolf set out to blow open her creative world by writing with total strangers. But while Nashville yielded some sparks—including the euphoric, country-tinged standout track “Champagne”—it also made her realize that what she really needed was to create her own sanctuary.
So, Wolf assembled what she affectionately calls her “family band,” an inner sanctum comprised of long-term collaborator Jared Solomon, her songwriter friend Jack DeMeo, and her sister-in-law Gigi. Together, they decamped to a cozy log cabin in Big Bear, California, and later to the expanses of Joshua Tree, writing in living rooms rather than recording studios. Wolf embraced the role of “house mom,” cooking breakfast and dinner for her crew as they worked.
The goal from the outset was relatively simple: every track had to be sturdy enough for singing around a campfire on an acoustic guitar with three-part harmony, but still be an authentic reflection of Wolf’s emotional unraveling. (They would also, naturally, have impossibly catchy melodies—with Mud, Wolf proves once again that there are few artists out there with an ear for a hook quite like her.)
But the real breakthrough arrived at Manhattan’s storied Electric Lady Studios, where Wolf and her crew penned “Covered in Mud” and the euphoric “Bottle,” unlocking a sonic world she sums up as equal parts “emotional sludge” and “SpongeBob Ascension.” Across the final album’s wall-to-wall heaters—from the raw, powerhouse belting of “Jamie” to the bruised, guitar-noodling confessions of “Guess”—Wolf maps the journey of her Saturn return through heartbreak, alcoholism, a breakdown, and back again, eventually discovering an infectious, bone-deep joy that radiates from the wide-eyed wonder of “Moon So High,” featuring John Mayer, or the ecstasy of total surrender on “Covered in Mud.” As Wolf herself puts it: “There’s a freedom in being covered in mud and completely succumbing to how you truly feel.”
