Warhaus - Ha Ha Heartbreak (LP)

Some records feel like they were written in the small hours, with the city asleep and the heart doing laps. Ha Ha Heartbreak is one of those, and it suits Maarten Devoldere to a tee. Under the Warhaus banner, the Balthazar co-frontman has always leaned into a smoky, twilight mood, but this third album sharpens the focus. Released in November 2022 through Play It Again Sam, it arrived five years after his self-titled LP and wears the time away like a suit that has been broken in just right.

The backstory sets the tone. Devoldere decamped to Palermo in Sicily after a break-up and wrote quickly, letting the bruises show. You can hear that heat and haste in the way these songs move. The opener Open Window slinks in on muted horns and a loping rhythm, his baritone taking centre stage, half confessional, half challenge. It is a curtain-raiser that doubles as a thesis statement. Brass, strings and a rhythm section that prefers a slow burn over a hard snap. There is plenty of air in the arrangements, which keeps the drama simmering rather than boiling over.

It Had To Be You is the torch song here, the one you put on when the lights are low and you are deciding whether to send that text. Devoldere sings it straight, no wink, and the restraint sells it. The chorus rises gently, never overplaying its hand. That Leonard Cohen comparison that follows Warhaus around is still relevant, but it is not a crutch. The melodies have a continental lilt and the lyrics are just wry enough to sting. When I Am With You goes for a more immediate pull, carrying a sweet ache that feels built for late night radio and long tram rides home.

Time Bomb adds a bit of tension. The groove ticks along like a fuse, with brass flickers and percussion keeping the stakes up. It is one of those tracks that sounds like it was tracked with the band facing each other, eyes up, catching cues in real time. Whether or not that is exactly how it went down in the studio, the feel is there. That is one of Ha Ha Heartbreak’s biggest strengths. The production is rich but not fussy. You hear room tone, you hear breath between vocal lines, you hear the trumpet player relax into the pocket. It is cinematic without turning into wallpaper.

There is a short film tied to the album that threads several songs together, and it matches the record’s hotel-room melancholy. Devoldere has spoken about letting go of control in the writing, and you can sense that trust in the way the songs allow players to colour outside the lines. Backing vocals arrive like a passing thought, then drift. Strings swell, then step away before they overstay. Nothing feels bolted on. Even the little percussive details, the shaker here, the woodblock there, are placed for feel rather than flash.

If you have followed Warhaus since We Fucked a Flame into Being in 2016, this one lands as a kind of homecoming. The swagger is still there, but it has softened into something more bruised and generous. That makes Ha Ha Heartbreak a rewarding listen front to back. It is easy to cherry pick the singles, yet the sequencing matters. The album breathes. Peaks and valleys, candlelit corners, then a door flung open to let the night air in. On vinyl, that ebb and flow only gets more persuasive. It is the sort of side A, side B storytelling that makes flipping the record feel like turning a page.

For those hunting Warhaus vinyl, this is a satisfying spin, the kind you file next to your favourite Balthazar set and reach for when the room needs mood. If you want to buy Warhaus records online, you will find Ha Ha Heartbreak vinyl popping up at the usual spots, and a decent Melbourne record store will likely have a copy leaning in the new arrivals. It sits neatly in the section for late-night crooners and understated romantics, which is a long way of saying it keeps good company. Warhaus albums on vinyl tend to become slow-burn staples on the shelf, especially for anyone who cares about lush, lived-in arrangements. And if you are crate digging across vinyl records Australia wide, keep an eye out. This one rewards repeat plays, the little details getting louder each time.

Break-up albums can be sloppy or cruel. This one is neither. It is tender without being cloying and stylish without being slick. Devoldere finds the line between drama and understatement and walks it with a glass in hand, head up, eyes open. The hurt is there, but so is the humour promised in the title. That laugh is not cheap. It is the sound of someone who knows the cost and pays it anyway, then writes a beautiful record about the bill.