Listening to “Small Town Syndrome” by thinking silly is an exercise in delightful contradiction. Dylan Morrison’s project, shaped here by the production hand of collaborator Margot Taylor, builds a sleek, propulsive chassis of dark pop and minimal techno, only to house an engine of pure, grinding ache. It’s the sound of someone forcing a smile so wide their face hurts, a dance track for the emotionally stranded.
The beat has this nervous, urban energy, a city-at-night sheen. But then the choruses hit, and a heavy guitar tone erupts like a dropped cast-iron pan during a quiet confession. It’s an astonishingly effective move. That sound, for a brief moment, makes me think of the specific metallic tang of old railway lines on a hot day – the smell of a place you’re desperate to leave. The polished production from Taylor ensures these gear-shifts feel intentional, like the cracking facade of someone trying desperately to keep a conversation civil.
This isn’t merely a lament; it’s a diagnosis. Morrison’s narrative perfectly captures the particular torment of loving someone who is perceptive in every aspect of life, except when it comes to you. He’s caught in that awful loop, idealizing a past that no longer exists while battling a present that refuses to connect. The name “thinking silly” itself begins to feel less like a quirky moniker and more like the narrator’s own exhausted self-gaslighting.
The song doesn’t resolve, it just fades out on that heavy, distorted riff, leaving you with the feeling of a phone call that ended abruptly. It offers no catharsis, only a precise and unsettling reflection of a very modern heartbreak. What do you do when the music tells you to dance, but the words confirm you’re already dancing alone?
