The cover of Your Arms Are My Cocoon’s debut album. Credit: Courtesy the Artist

Before Tyler Odom moved to Chicago this year, he had the wild idea to take bedroom pop’s fragile instrumentation and whispered vocals and mash them together with screamo’s bleating hollers and grenades of frisson. On his recent self-titled solo debut as Your Arms Are My Cocoon, Odom fuses those incongruous styles with pluck, charm, and irrepressible energy—it feels like he succeeds simply because he’s so sure he can. He made most of the album in his bedroom in Katy, Texas, and certain elements sound like they were recorded in a blanket fort; the busy patter of electronic percussion that races through “Clifford the Big Red Stab Wound” could be coming from a speaker buried under a pile of pillows. Odom’s gentle touches—somber melodica melodies, looping guitars that drift like a dead leaf in a stream—provide a built-in contrast that sharpens his brooding screams and ratchets up the intensity in his florid, romantic lyrics (though it’s often hard to tell just what the hell he’s trying to say). Your Arms Are My Cocoon gets its power by creating the sense that Odom is broadcasting from a space where he feels safe to yell as loudly as he wants, mumble incoherently, or curl up into a ball—and these songs are our window into that private part of his life. Now that I’ve heard this record, the concept of “bedroom screamo” doesn’t sound so strange anymore.   v