Hurray For The Riff Raff - The Navigator (LP)

Hurray For The Riff Raff’s The Navigator arrived in March 2017 via ATO Records, and it still lands with the kind of purpose that makes you sit up straight. Alynda Segarra built their band’s name on dust‑road folk and scrappy Americana, but this is the moment they turned the lens toward their own roots and the city that shaped them. Born in the Bronx to Puerto Rican parents, Segarra crafted a concept record about identity, survival and who gets to belong in a changing town. You can hear the South Bronx tenements, the Lower East Side stoops, and the New Orleans streets where Segarra cut their teeth as a busker, all woven into a tight 12 song suite that moves like a film.

Producer Paul Butler, known for work with The Bees and Michael Kiwanuka, gives the record a warm, lived‑in glow without sanding off its grit. He leans on roomy drums, low brass and bright guitar lines that nod to Latin soul and street corner doo‑wop as much as folk rock. The opening stretch sets the pace: “Living in the City” swings with a loose strut and a chorus built for crowded rooms, while “Hungry Ghost” turns anxiety into motion, a pulsing rhythm and a melody that sticks. You feel the band playing as a unit rather than a studio patchwork; it’s the sound of a group who know how to leave space, and when to crowd the mic and shout together.

“Rican Beach” is the record’s hard stare. It builds on a hypnotic groove and a menacing, circular guitar figure, and it is explicit about land theft, displacement and the way power reshapes neighbourhoods. Segarra spits the words with a calm fury, never slipping into sloganeering, which makes it cut even deeper. “Pa’lante” is the other pillar. It starts stark and tender, then swells into a rallying cry for all the kids who grew up told to keep quiet. When it crests, with Segarra calling out, it feels less like a performance and more like a collective memory. The song took on a second life when it featured in Trey Edward Shults’ 2019 film Waves, and it’s easy to hear why; it carries a whole world in six minutes.

The concept threads through without getting in the way of the songs. There’s a protagonist, an alter ego who wanders a city of landlords and ghosts, but you don’t need a map to follow it. What ties the album together is Segarra’s voice, grainy and clear, and their writing, which trades in small, telling details. A bus passes. A family photo goes missing in a move. A friend doesn’t come back. Even the prettiest moments have teeth. You get harmonies that glint like old streetlights, hand percussion that shuffles at the edges, and the occasional swell of strings that underline the stakes.

Critics heard it straight away. NPR highlighted the record’s political force wrapped in singable hooks; The Guardian praised its specificity and heart. Fans latched on too. At gigs, you can feel the lift when “Living in the City” kicks in, and the hush before the final run of “Pa’lante”. It’s become a favourite entry point for people who come to the band from different scenes, whether through folk festivals or indie rock bills. And if you arrived via earlier HFTRR staples like Small Town Heroes, you’ll hear how The Navigator broadens the palette while keeping the songwriting taut.

On wax, it shines. The Navigator vinyl pressing carries a roomy low end that flatters the drums and congas, and the horns don’t smear when the choruses rise. If you’re crate digging for Hurray For The Riff Raff vinyl, this is the one that sparks staff‑counter chats at your local Melbourne record store. It sits well alongside other Hurray For The Riff Raff albums on vinyl too; there’s a continuity in the jackets and a feeling of a catalogue that keeps deepening. If you need to buy Hurray For The Riff Raff records online, look for reputable shops in the vinyl records Australia ecosystem that note the ATO edition and condition clearly. The Navigator vinyl is worth the care.

What keeps me coming back is how it balances tenderness and fight. Segarra wrote a love letter to a people and a place, then set it to melodies that refuse to fade. It’s the rare concept record that works at every level: story, mood, and songcraft. Put it on in the late afternoon when the sun turns the room the colour of old film, and let the city inside it open up.