It was only recently that I heard about Nell Smith. I saw a story about how she got to work with The Flaming Lips frontman, Wayne Coyne. And in that same article, it was mentioned that she had died. I didn’t know her personally, of course, but something about it really affected me. Maybe it was her age—just seventeen. Maybe it was the gut-punch of seeing someone so full of promise suddenly, inexplicably gone. But it was also something more personal: Nell had been born in England on the exact same day as my eldest son, Elliott, and, like us, her family had made Canada home. That parallel was difficult to shake.
Now, her debut album, Anxious is here, released posthumously. Listening to it is an experience that’s both illuminating and disorienting. The music feels alive, almost effervescent, full of colour and curiosity. And yet, every note carries the quiet ache of what we now know: this is her beginning and her end. A snapshot of a young artist mid-bloom, stopped too soon.
Still, it doesn’t feel like a eulogy. Anxious fizzes with invention and youthfulness. It’s eclectic, dreamy, and full of small, strange joys. The songs sound like someone falling in love with music, reaching for everything all at once, not worried about coherence or convention. That openness, that playfulness, is the record’s beating heart.
Nell’s voice is central to that feeling. It’s not polished in the studio-slick way we’ve come to expect from pop. It wavers. It cracks in places. But that’s what makes it so compelling. She sounds present. Vulnerable. Like she’s figuring it out as she goes.
The title track sets the tone with its dreamy synths and jittery percussion. The lyrics hover between humour and sincerity—“My mum says it’s just a phase”—but the delivery doesn’t push too hard in either direction. It feels lived-in. Honest.
Production-wise, the album owes a lot to Jack and Lily Wolter of Penelope Isles, who bring a warm, textured palette to every track. The arrangements are loose and layered—sometimes messily so, in the best way. You hear the creak of strings, the ambient hum of rooms, the whisper of half-buried backing vocals.
“Daisy Fields” is hazy and beautiful, built around soft loops and vocals that feel like they’re drifting in from another room. “Bubba” is more grounded—more confessional—but keeps the lo-fi aesthetic intact. Written in memory of Nell’s mentor, Troy Cook, it doesn’t try to dramatize grief. Instead, it gently acknowledges its weight.
Then there’s “The Worst Best Drug,” where the Flaming Lips’ influence is most obvious. Synths squelch and shimmer; rhythms twist and tumble. It’s a track that might fall apart in less capable hands, but here it holds together, thanks to Nell’s centred vocal.
And that’s something you notice across the whole album. Even in its most chaotic moments—like the gloriously unhinged “Boy In A Bubble”—there’s a sense that Nell knows where she’s going, even if she’s still exploring how to get there.
What’s striking is how little cynicism there is. So many debut albums try to sound older, wiser, more polished than they need to be. Anxious doesn’t do that. It leans into its youth. There’s joy in the way it experiments, in the way it invites odd sounds into the mix just to see what happens.
“I Know Nothing” brings the mood down gently, stripping things back to acoustic guitar and whispered reflection. It’s sparse and affecting, with a moment of silence that lingers long after the line, “You are gone.” That pause says more than any lyric could.
“Billions of People” lifts things again, bright and offbeat, with a chorus that reads like a love letter to singular connection in a noisy world. “7.92 billion people, I choose you.” It’s brilliant in its simplicity.
By the time we reach the closer, “Split in the Sky,” we’re deep in Flaming Lips territory again—pulsing synths, spaced-out vocals, a structure that feels more like a constellation than a straight line. It’s not a grand finale so much as a gentle drifting off. One last swirl of sound. One last moment with Nell.
What to make of all this? There’s no tidy way to frame Anxious. It’s not a fully realized statement, nor does it need to be. It’s a glimpse. A flash. A first attempt that already hints at something remarkable. And yes, the loss is enormous. But the music—this music—still matters.
You could call Anxious a time capsule. Or just a really beautiful debut from someone who didn’t get the chance to make another. Whatever words you choose, one thing’s clear: Nell Smith made something worth holding on to.
And maybe that’s enough.
All sales of the album will go towards the Nell Smith Memorial Fund, which her family set up. The fund will honour her legacy and support upcoming musicians.
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