Mica Levi - Ruff Dog (12")

Mica Levi’s Ruff Dog landed in 2020 like a scuffed diary you weren’t supposed to find, only it rewards repeat reads instead of making you feel nosy. Levi had already earned serious clout by then, between leading Micachu and the Shapes and scoring films like Under the Skin and Jackie, the latter netting an Academy Award nomination for Best Original Score. But this is a different lens. Ruff Dog is the first full-length songs record under their own name, and it’s a set of intimate, volatile sketches that feel taped in the moment, then left a little rough on purpose so the air around them can still breathe.

What sticks first is the guitar tone. It’s corroded and tender at once, like a pawn shop Strat run through too many practice amps and then printed to whatever recorder was within reach. Loops unravel, re-thread, and buckle. Beats flicker and drift in and out of time. Levi’s voice hovers in the middle distance, pitched and ghosted just enough to sound like a thought forming rather than a statement. The songs don’t announce themselves; they accumulate. You catch a line and hang onto it as the tape wobbles. You wait for the bass to return and realize its absence is the point, that the negative space is doing plenty of the talking.

Levi has always handled texture like a storyteller, and that skill translates from the cinema to these small rooms. The same composer who could make strings feel like alien weather in Under the Skin now finds drama in a three-note figure and a failing loop. Several pieces ride a single idea until it reveals its seams, then pivot just slightly to show you a different angle. Nothing here tries to resolve too neatly. It’s a heartbreak record in spirit, but it dodges the usual big confessional arcs in favor of flickers of memory and the mind’s random logic. Think scribbles in the margins, not a tidy chapter end.

There are flashes of straightforward beauty. A chord progression will finally settle. A clipped drum pattern will catch and strut for a minute before collapsing into hum. Levi’s ear for melody is sharp even when the surface is scarred, and that contrast gives Ruff Dog its bite. It’s not lo-fi as an affect; it’s lo-fi because the ideas were too alive to polish into museum pieces. You can hear fingers on strings, buttons being punched, the room itself pushing back. That sense of real time turns even the shorter fragments into scenes you replay later.

Critics heard it too. Outlets that usually live for clean lines gave Ruff Dog a careful listen, picking up on the diaristic quality and the way it reshapes singer-songwriter forms without waving a neon sign about it. Fans of Micachu-era abrasions will latch onto the grit, while folks who came in through the film work will recognize the control. Levi makes modest tools feel orchestral by implication. A cheap drum machine and a few pedals can summon whole landscapes if you know where to leave the gaps.

If you collect Mica Levi vinyl, this one earns a spot next to the Under the Skin and Jackie LPs for a different reason. Those film scores glow in widescreen. Ruff Dog pulls you into a late-night desk lamp world, all scuffs and eraser shavings. The album’s pacing suits vinyl, too, with sides that feel like two related moods having a private conversation. I’ve seen copies filed in the experimental bin, also in indie, occasionally in soundtracks by association, which says a lot about how the record slides between lanes. If you’re looking to buy Mica Levi records online, keep an eye out for a clean pressing of Ruff Dog vinyl because surface noise is already a character here and you want the pressing to complement, not compete.

A small aside for fellow crate diggers: if you’re in a Melbourne record store that leans left of center, you’ll often find this tucked near Good Sad Happy Bad, which is a handy reminder of the lineage. And if you’re browsing from afar, plenty of shops that ship vinyl records Australia wide stock Mica Levi albums on vinyl in limited waves. It’s worth grabbing when you see it; these tend to vanish and reappear without much warning.

Ruff Dog doesn’t try to convince you with volume or stunt arrangements. It wins by sounding lived-in, like a room you can sit in and think. The songs are sturdy enough to carry feeling, and scrappy enough to keep you curious. Play it once and you’ll hear sketches. Play it five times and you’ll hear a map. That’s the quiet trick here. Levi gives you the materials and leaves just enough space for your brain to finish the drawing.