Lupin - Lupin (LP) - Red Vinyl

Jake Luppen stepping out as Lupin in 2020 felt less like a side project and more like someone flicking on a light switch you didn’t know was there. If you know him as the singer and guitarist from Hippo Campus, you’ll recognise the athletic voice and melodic instincts, but the palette shifts into neon. It is synths, drum machines, and that particular mix of melancholy and heat you get from a late bus ride with your headphones up. The self‑titled album leans into sleek pop architecture without sanding away the quirks that make Luppen such an engaging presence.

“May” was the first thing that really hooked me. It’s a pulsing, glassy cut that circles a simple idea and lets the bassline do the heavy lifting while his falsetto carries the melody like a kite in a winter gust. The sound is big, but there’s space between the hits, and he’s not afraid to let a line hang in the air. “Vampire” came next and sharpened the picture. Squelchy synths, stuttering percussion, a chorus that sidesteps into a minor key and sinks its teeth in. It’s pop, sure, though it scratches an itch that fans of the Twin Cities’ electronic and funk lineage will recognise. You can feel the Minneapolis influence in the rubbery low end and the way the grooves stay lit without overplaying their hand.

What makes Lupin land is the way Luppen treats the voice as both lead and texture. He’ll stack harmonies until they blur at the edges, then cut everything but a kick and a cracked falsetto. It’s intimate, sometimes almost uncomfortably so, and it suits the writing. The lyrics circle identity and desire, scenes that feel half-lit but specific enough to sting. He has always had a knack for the image that ruins you a little, and here the production gives those moments a proper frame. When the synths swell, they sound like the feeling of missing a turn and not minding at all.

There’s a sense of release across the record, like a musician stretching new muscles. The beats snap hard, the keys are sculpted and glossy, and the guitar shows up as seasoning rather than the main course. It’s not a total departure from his band work, more like taking the undercurrent of those songs and letting it run the show. If you’ve ever wished the prettiest Hippo Campus bridges could live out in the open for three and a half minutes, this is your record.

Spinning it on a proper setup sells the point. The low end is warm and forward, the vocals sit right where they should, and those little percussive ticks leap out of the speakers. If you’re hunting down Lupin vinyl, the self‑titled is the place to start, and it’s one of those albums that rewards an A‑to‑B listen rather than a playlist drop-in. The sequencing flows, the textures shift just enough each track to keep your ears pricked, and the hooks keep sneaking back hours later. It sits neatly on the shelf next to Hippo Campus, but it reaches into a different crate altogether.

I’ve played this in a quiet lounge and on a crowded shop floor and it holds up in both spaces. That’s part of the magic. It’s detailed, though it never collapses under its own cleverness. The songs stand up even when the gloss is stripped. Hum one of these choruses on a walk and you’ll get why. There’s precision here, but it is in service of feeling, not fussiness.

For collectors, this one is a tidy recommendation between payday splurges and impulse buys. If you’re browsing a Melbourne record store on a Saturday and it’s in the new arrivals, grab it, then head home and play “May” first. If you prefer to buy Lupin records online, you’ll find the self‑titled shared in the same digital aisles as plenty of Hippo Campus pressings, and it’s a smart add‑to‑cart if you’re curating a small run of synth‑leaning indie. There might only be one Lupin album right now, but Lupin albums on vinyl reads like a promise. For those searching across vinyl records Australia, this is the kind of modern pop statement that earns repeat spins, and it sounds even better once the needle drops and the room tilts just a little in its direction.