Submit your Music! Click Here.

Crises of Willpower by Simians

A Long-Lost Songbook Comes to Life in a Cinematic Folk Odyssey

Sponsored

Some albums capture a moment. Others feel like they’ve been waiting to be heard for years. Crises of Willpower, the debut album from San Diego-based band Simians, is one of those rare records that carries the weight of both time and experience. Written by songwriter Simon Breen in his early twenties, these songs sat on the shelf while life pulled him in different directions—across continents, through the Peace Corps, into environmental work, and away from music entirely. But after years of traveling, studying primates, and immersing himself in conservation, he found himself drawn back to the guitar during the isolation of the COVID pandemic. He dusted off these songs, gathered a group of musicians, and finally brought them to life. The result is a sprawling, richly textured concept album about struggle, resilience, and the cycles we find ourselves trapped in—both personally and as a society.

A Concept Album of Inner and Outer Battles

At its core, Crises of Willpower explores a simple yet powerful question: How much of our struggle is just a failure of will? The album suggests that whether it’s self-doubt, addiction, heartbreak, political turmoil, or war, most of the challenges we face come down to some battle between impulse and control, action and inaction.

The first half of the album feels introspective, focused on personal struggles—procrastination (Rabbit Holes), lost love (Message for an Answering Machine), isolation (Vanished), and miscommunication (Islands). Then, as if stepping outside of its own mind, the record shifts outward, tackling larger societal themes: war (Trench Prayer and Trench Sermon), economic hardship (Unkind), political deception (Serpents of the Throne), and the futility of violence (For Peace). But instead of wrapping things up neatly, the final song, Loop (Acoustic), circles back on itself, hinting that these struggles aren’t linear—they’re patterns we repeat, loops we struggle to break.

Poetic Lyrics and a Cinematic Sound

Breen’s songwriting blends poetic storytelling with an almost hypnotic approach to structure. His lyrics are vivid and literary, pulling from both personal experience and historical reflection. The Logger and the Snow Angel is a haunting example, telling the story of a man trapped under a fallen tree, hallucinating as the cold sets in. The imagery is stark and cinematic, but beneath the surface, it carries a deeper theme—feeling stuck in life, unable to move forward.

“Trapped underneath this red oak tree / If this snow keeps falling down, I’ll be buried alive.”

There’s a chilling serenity in the way the protagonist begins to accept his fate, the chorus evolving from desperation into something eerily peaceful:

“If this is death, there’s serenity in it / And I welcome it.”

In Vanished, the existential dread of disappearing from people’s lives is laid bare:

“Gone but in the minds of former friends / Evanescent, obsolescent / Meaningless in means and ends.”

The song unfolds like a whispered confession, its cyclical refrain—“Every new day we break with the dawn”—turning from a reminder of resilience into something almost haunting.

On the other side of the spectrum, Islands paints a picture of isolation—people living on metaphorical islands, sending messages in bottles:

“Everyone’s on their own island / Sending messages by bottle.”

Yet by the song’s end, there’s a flicker of hope, a call to connection:

“Let’s build a bridge ‘tween our islands / Let’s make it big for our children.”

Then there’s Unkind, which simmers with quiet rage at a world that grinds people down:

“Six billion arms with hands stretched out / And clawing to tear your heart out.”

It’s a song that feels weighty and relentless, a reflection of frustration and exhaustion.

Trench Sermon takes that anger and sharpens it into a scathing anti-war critique. Over a stark, marching rhythm, the song lays bare the way power structures sacrifice the young for their own gain:

“Call it war, call it order / Whatever you call it, it’s still state-sanctioned murder.”

The song builds and builds until it reaches its breaking point, where the narrator refuses to let another life be taken:

“Don’t let them send one more down.”

Just when the album reaches its most outwardly critical moment, Loop (Acoustic) brings things back inward. The song acknowledges the struggles, the relapses, the endless cycles of self-destruction and rebirth:

“We do so well and then relapse / Repeats this way ‘til we collapse.”

Yet, rather than ending in despair, it suggests there’s still a chance to break free:

“Give our lives a second thought / All the wrong that we have wrought / Can’t eclipse our good that quick.”

It’s a stunning closer, one that refuses to let the darkness win completely.

A Rich, Expansive Sound

Musically, the album is just as layered as its lyrics. Simians describe their sound as “folktronica”—a fusion of folk-inspired songwriting with modern electronic textures. It’s an approach reminiscent of bands like Grandaddy, Sparklehorse, and Tunng, where acoustic guitar and warm harmonies coexist with shimmering synths, glockenspiels, and unexpected instrumental flourishes.

This is also an album made by a true collective. The band’s lineup features an impressive array of instrumentalists, bringing upright bass, trumpet, flute, violin, accordion, and even baglamas and kaval into the mix. The result is a lush, orchestral folk sound, one that feels as expansive as it does intimate. Producer Ken Coomer (Wilco, Uncle Tupelo) captures this beautifully, keeping the performances raw and organic rather than overly polished. Every note feels lived-in, every element adding to the album’s humanity.

Standout Tracks

  • “The Logger and the Snow Angel” – A cinematic, emotionally devastating folk ballad that moves through four distinct acts, capturing both physical and emotional entrapment.
  • “Message for an Answering Machine” – A melancholic reflection on distance and moving on, blending acoustic storytelling with atmospheric touches.
  • “Crossing the Chesapeake” – A hypnotic, road-worn song that feels like a hazy memory, carried by a gently rolling melody and a sense of exhaustion.
  • “Trench Sermon” – One of the album’s most powerful moments, confronting the cycle of war and the way young people are sent to die for causes they barely understand.
  • “Loop (Acoustic)” – A perfect closer, reinforcing the idea of life’s endless cycles, with repeating motifs that blur the line between ending and beginning.

Final Thoughts: A Record That Feels Like a Journey

Some debuts introduce an artist at the beginning of their story. Crises of Willpower is different—it’s an album written in youth, released after years of life had reshaped its meaning. There’s a sense of time embedded in these songs, a bittersweetness in finally bringing them to the world. But there’s also a triumph in that—proof that creativity isn’t bound by time, that unfinished work still has the power to resonate.

This is a record that doesn’t offer easy answers. It wrestles with its own questions, its own contradictions. It acknowledges that history repeats, that personal struggles loop endlessly, but it also suggests that somewhere in that repetition, there’s still hope—the chance to learn, to grow, to break free.

For those willing to take the journey, Crises of Willpower is a statement, and it lingers long after the final note.

Newsletter