Julia Jacklin feels it; Courtney Barnett sees it

Jacklin writes from the inside out, Barnett from the outside in.

Jacklin’s songs ache. She’s telling you what it’s like to be her — the shame, the grief, the awkwardness of growing up. “Pool Party” drags you through a slow-motion cringe. “Head Alone” is about bodily autonomy. She doesn’t hide the mess; she sits in it.

Barnett is more of an observer. Her lyrics are wry, deadpan, packed with specific details: a depressive episode described as “a staircase that goes down forever,” a guy who talks about his Kombucha, a shitty dinner party painted in four minutes. She’s funny without being mean. You watch the scene; she’s the narrator.

Both are exceptional storytellers. Jacklin makes you feel what she feels. Barnett makes you see what she sees.

If Jacklin is a diary entry, Barnett is a short story collection. Both worth your time.