Raquel Ramos really mixes it up on her single “Advice,” drawing from what feels like a whole generational Rolodex of music. You’ve got that 90s alt-rock edge, some pure pop earnestness, and hints of R&B soul woven through it. And the song itself (from Ramos, who used to be Sirena Sol) doesn’t hit you softly; it feels more like the surprise of finding a deeply personal, maybe slightly crumpled note hidden in an old coat pocket.
The track circles that well-worn, eternally baffling topic: the relentless march of time and the hard-won lessons you wish you could courier back to your own naive past. Life as an unstoppable train, Ramos seems to say, rattling towards stations of heartache and minor triumphs alike, regardless of whether you bought a ticket for that specific destination. It feels less like doom and more like… atmospheric pressure? Unavoidable.
There’s a certain pragmatic weariness in the vocals, a tone that says, “Look, I tried yelling this at the wind, maybe you’ll catch a word or two.” The advice isn’t platitudes; it’s the sturdy, slightly cynical stuff – hold onto simple joys, be yourself because pretending is exhausting, understand that growth often smells like emotional mildew before it smells like anything else. It reminds me, oddly, of the colour verdigris – that specific green patina copper gets over time. It’s decay, sure, but also evidence of endurance, strangely beautiful.
This idea of accepting the whole messy internal landscape, finding “protein for your soul” in the aggregate of your own history, resonates. It bypasses the shiny self-help aisle and heads straight for the acknowledgment that yeah, the journey often involves tripping over your own feet, repeatedly.
Ramos doesn’t tie “Advice” up with a neat bow. Instead, she leaves you staring at the patterns the spilled coffee makes on the table. If your past self did bump into you on the street today, would you even stop to chat?
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