Lily Kershaw’s Pain & More transports you into a hazy yet poignant emotional landscape, blending delicate vulnerability with raw confessions. The titular track, “Pain & More,” invites us to walk a tightrope between aching despair and the human desire for simple joys, each line wrapped in her hushed, contemplative vocals. Co-produced with Brandon Walters of Lord Huron fame, the song—and the album as a whole—acts as both a lament and an exploration, casting a melancholic but relatable light on Kershaw’s personal battles with depression and the aftermath of a shattered relationship.
Kershaw doesn’t merely recount heartbreak; she paints it in soft, almost cinematic strokes, drawing inspiration from the moody atmospheres of ’90s art-house films. Much like Sofia Coppola’s The Virgin Suicides, which she has cited as an influence, Kershaw juxtaposes fragility with a yearning for something just out of reach. The lyrics are painfully relatable for anyone who has ever found themselves caught in the slow churn of despondency—wanting nothing more than the mundane but necessary comforts of “money in the bank” and “friends all very happy.”
The opening lines of Pain & More feel like a meditation: “Take me with the breeze / I’m gentle and at ease.” There’s a softness here that hints at surrender, not to love, but to life’s uncertainties. It’s a stark contrast to the commanding presence we often expect in break-up anthems; instead of railing against the past, Kershaw is almost imploring for peace, for stability, for the kind of love that would make everything else, however fleeting, feel manageable. But the chorus reveals the scars beneath the tenderness: “I’ve been right here before / And I’ve felt that pain & more.” She’s trapped in a cycle, hoping for something better but haunted by the fear that nothing will change.
There’s a certain irony embedded in the song’s rhythm—steady and lilting, as if comforting you despite the emotional weight it carries. The production, like many tracks on the album, is minimalist yet atmospheric, evoking a kind of dream-like state that reflects Kershaw’s introspective songwriting. You’re drawn into her world, where even the most mundane concerns (gas for the tank, rent to pay) take on a deeper, almost philosophical weight when juxtaposed against the overwhelming backdrop of emotional exhaustion.
What really sticks with you about Pain & More is Kershaw’s knack for turning specific, personal struggles into something universally resonant. It’s in the casual mentions of “accepting defeat” or the wry acceptance of solitude (“Leave or take me home / Either way I’ll be alone”), where she captures the quiet resilience that comes with battling depression. It’s this ability to blend the personal with the universal that gives her music its unique power; her pain, while deeply intimate, echoes the broader human condition.
And it’s not all bleak. Hidden within the melancholy are moments of dark humor and subtle defiance, qualities that make Kershaw’s storytelling so engaging. In interviews, she’s joked about being in “Depreshmode”—a witty nod to how she copes with her own depression, but also a statement about the pervasive feeling of being stuck in a loop. Kershaw’s honesty about her mental health, and her willingness to lean into that discomfort, makes Pain & More an album of quiet rebellion. As she puts it herself, “Healing is a form of rebellion,” and this song stands as a testament to that belief.
This track isn’t just about surviving a breakup. It’s a deeply reflective moment of self-awareness, a bittersweet acknowledgment that life doesn’t always hand you the peace you crave, but you keep going anyway. Kershaw’s soft-spoken delivery and the simplicity of her lyrics contrast with the complexity of the emotions they convey. In Pain & More, she invites us into her most vulnerable moments, and in doing so, reminds us of the strength that comes from simply staying the course—even when that course is marked by pain, uncertainty, and the desire for something as simple as “some good days.”
