I wanted to make sure that nobody would mistake this album for an attempt at pop. If you want toe tapping chart charters, this is not it. Instead, what you get with this one is heaping pile of high concept slop. It will bend your sensibilities, make you wonder about me, and yourself. 

This is an album of emotional misinformation. A lo-fi grunge ballad and a Bulgarian seduction anthem walk into a furniture store after the apocalypse—and nobody stops them. Low Effort Music is a genre-jumping fever dream held together by static electricity, dubious math, and one very judgmental poodle.

These aren’t  songs. They’re unreliable narrators, rejected soundtracks, self-aware metaphors, and doomed love letters to the void. It’s Americana after three edibles. It’s pop if pop gave up pretending. It’s Dada with a debit card.

Every track sounds like it was recorded in a different universe—but somehow, it’s all unmistakably Lynn Cole. Don’t ask how. She won’t tell you.

🎧 Listen if you like:

    Existential kazoo solos

    Static as a love language

    Math problems with commitment issues

    Songs that don’t blink first

No algorithm for love

I make experimental nonsense music that doesn't always sound experimental, or like nonsense. But rest assured... it is