Time doesn’t so much pass as drift on Jellywish, the fifth album from indie folk outfit Florist. The record doesn’t count time in beats or bars; instead, it marks moments through half-remembered glances, through the space between one breath and the next. While Emily Sprague, Rick Spataro, Jonnie Baker, and Felix Walworth have always created music that lives in these gentle pockets of existence, Jellywish finds them diving headfirst into this in-between space.

The Florist universe expands here in whispers, creating a world where wonder and grief aren’t opposites but companions. You might call it folk music if you needed a label. You could just as easily describe it as an ambient-naturalist diary. But Jellywish gently questions such categorizations until they blur at the edges.

Sprague’s work—whether solo or with Florist—has always circled themes of loss, community, memory, and nature. These threads remain, but now they twist and bend like light through water. The songs feel less like direct confessions and more like messages sent outward—maybe not even to us, but to something just beyond our grasp. A future version of ourselves? A friend who’s gone? A world coming undone?

“Levitate” opens the album, though it does anything but. The track moves with cautious footsteps as Sprague unpacks daily dread: “Every day I wake / wait for the tragedy.” The guitar work is sparse, almost skeletal. There’s no big crescendo here—just quiet existential uncertainty flickering against faint sparks of hope. It reads like a thesis statement, not of answers but of careful attention.

Then comes “Have Heaven,” perhaps the album’s strongest moment—structurally daring yet emotionally transparent. The arrangement touches lightly: soft percussion rustling around, occasional synth washes, and a rhythm that feels more aligned with waves than with a click track. “Took a long breath in the middle of the town / Found myself in a body,” Sprague nearly murmurs. It’s a strange, beautiful line that hits you in your chest a beat or two after hearing it.

“Jellyfish”—the quasi-title track—tricks you with its simplicity. It starts as gentle indie folk with conversational vocals, but inside, Sprague wrestles with one of the album’s fundamental questions: Where do we fit in a world increasingly coming apart? “Destroy everything on Earth,” she sings, followed by its mirror image: “Destroy the feeling you are not enough.” The moment confronts and affirms all at once. Like its namesake, the song appears delicate but carries an unexpected sting.

Sprague writes in a way that skips linear storytelling for something more fractured yet somehow clearer. This approach shines brightest on “Moon, Sea, Devil” and “Our Hearts in a Room”—little philosophical fragments captured in amber. The first barely stretches past two minutes but somehow contains an entire fever dream. The second feels like everyone breathing out together. “You in love looks a lot like / You just standing in the sun,” they sing—so straightforward it might slip past you, but it stays.

You can almost feel the instruments throughout. Acoustic guitars dominate, sure, but never alone. Listen closely: tape hiss, random percussive elements, maybe a chair creaking or a synth humming faintly. The music doesn’t just sound close and intimate; it genuinely is—not as performance but as the natural sound of friends playing music together, listening to each other exist.

“Started to Glow” stands out here—an acoustic piece that suggests melody while prioritizing feeling. The line “I was thinking about dying again / The only thing that visits my head now” arrives without fanfare. It just appears—flat, unadorned, devastating.

If Jellywish falters anywhere, it’s when it occasionally drifts too far inward. Songs like “This Was a Gift” and “All the Same Light,” though beautifully arranged, sometimes blur emotionally—more impression than statement. You might occasionally wish for a firmer hand guiding things, a sharper turn, a deeper cut. But maybe that misses the point. Jellywish doesn’t push or pull. It floats. It waits. It listens.

Death’s shadow lingers throughout—not morbidly, but as a constant backdrop. You’ll find it in small details: a birthday celebration, a winter tree, a photograph losing clarity. “Gloom Designs,” which closes the album, brings this into focus. “It’s been a long time since we laughed until we cried,” Sprague sings. “It’s been a short time in the entirety of life.” Simple words, sure—but they punch through with their scope.

This won’t be everyone’s cup of tea. You can’t throw Jellywish on casually or expect it to reward half-listening. But for those willing to step into its fragile universe, real treasures await—in the lyrics, in the spaces between words, in the unresolved beauty of not knowing.

Sprague once described Florist as a “gentle delivery of something chaotic.” That’s about as close to a mission statement as you’ll find. On Jellywish, that delivery reaches new precision. And though the world it portrays may be fraying at the seams, the record holds together beautifully—tender, searching, deeply human.

Florist play La Sala Rossa on Thursday, May 29th. BUY TICKETS

JELLYWISH  IS OUT NOW ON DOUBLE DOUBLE WHAMMY

Photo – V Haddad

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