There’s a moment around track four on He Became Everything where I stopped trying to place Chan The Human into any kind of box. By that point, I’d already bounced between acoustic intimacy, upbeat pop rock, heavier alt textures, and something else entirely that felt like a late-night phone call between Elliott Smith and Ben Gibbard. You can hear Chandler Caron — the brain, voice, and soul behind Chan The Human — moving with intent, not chasing genre, but chasing a feeling. And the thing is, he catches it. Over and over.

This is a second full-length record, and it’s got that energy of someone who’s carried the weight of a first album, studied it under the microscope, and then made a clear decision: I’m going to do whatever the hell I want this time. Recorded and mastered at VuDu Studios in Port Jefferson, He Became Everything has that raw, unfiltered indie spirit, paired with a professional finish. The production stays out of the way — it enhances. It gives each idea room to live and breathe.

The album skips linear rules entirely. Instead of a neat arc, you get a series of mood swings — which feels like the most honest way to build a record in 2025. Some tracks are short and quiet, taking up space carefully. Others burst in with full band energy, vocals soaring high, drums punching through, guitars layered like scaffolding around a crumbling building.

Chan’s voice is the spine of it all. Chandler Caron sings without chasing approval. He sings like he’s explaining something that sits deep in the chest, something difficult to put into words. And when he stretches those notes, when the vibrato trembles just enough, there’s a quiet kind of truth in it.

I’ll admit, there’s a sort of beautiful chaos here. The way the album opens one door and before you even get your foot in, it slams it shut and opens another, entirely different one. You might be in a sleepy bedroom pop space and then suddenly dropped into something almost theatrical. And the transitions shouldn’t work. But somehow they do. It’s flipping through a journal where every page comes from a different city, different weather, different people around — every entry catching a new version of the story. But it’s still one life. There are tracks here that feel like letters. Others come across as confessions. Some play like voicemails you saved without meaning to, but keep returning to. The lyrics avoid forced cleverness — they flow like conversation, sometimes landing in poetry, sometimes sticking to plain speech. It’s that sharp moment of recognition, the quiet shock of “oh god, I’ve thought that too.”

“Highlights” opens the record with the kind of gentle indie folk that makes you want to let the coffee go cold. It’s light, melodic, and immediately ear-friendly — a commercial melody, sure, but not in a plastic way. Chan’s vocals float over it like they’ve been carried in on wind from somewhere more peaceful than wherever you’re sitting. And then comes “Alive,” and suddenly the energy pivots. Now we’re in rock territory — clean, punchy, alive in the most literal sense.

“Animus” is a clear standout. This one leans in with a rhythm that’s hard to pin down and a jazzy saxophone that arrives out of nowhere and somehow fits perfectly. There’s a theatrical quality in how the track is staged — almost like it was meant for a strange off-Broadway production that only runs for one night. Then right after, “Falling Between” rolls in with one of the smoothest transitions on the album. It’s pop-rock at its most addictive, with hooks that land hard and wrap around you instantly.

“Strangers” throws a curveball. The rhythm gets trickier, the harmonies grow darker, and suddenly the whole emotional tone of the album begins to tilt. This is where the album’s melancholy starts to settle in for real. That contrast — between the brightness of the early tracks and the introspection that follows — keeps the experience grounded. There’s a constant sway to the record. One moment you’re riding high on clean pop-rock arrangements with full-band color, the next you’re back in acoustic territory, stripped down to the emotional core. “Coming Apart” is one of those softer turns. It leans into vulnerability with its minimalist production, but never loses that sense of melody that runs through the whole album like a thread.

“All At Once,” a track so feather-light it practically dissolves. It’s romantic without trying to be, dreamy without veering into cliché. The closing pair, “The Shadow’s Dance (Revisited)” and “The River (Revisited),” work like a twin epilogue. A clear throughline connects them, both sonically and thematically. “The Shadow’s Dance” carries a playfulness in its rock framing, a brightness that reaches back to earlier moments on the album, but through a more matured lens. And then “The River” brings it all folk-inflected, sunny, tender. There’s something healing in it. You get the sense that if He Became Everything is a journey, this final track is the quiet walk back home after the storm has passed.

And yeah, maybe that’s what the title’s doing here! He Became Everything doesn’t mean he became successful or famous or anything external. It means he stopped shrinking parts of himself to fit into neat lanes. This album is what happens when you embrace contradiction, when you let all your versions live in the same house, even the ones that don’t get along.

Chan The Human aims to be honest — to share their truth, even as it shifts from track to track. That’s exactly what gives this album its strength. It speaks without disguise or pretense. It stands fully in its own shape. And by the time it’s over, you can feel that the band have moved forward. And if you’re really listening, there’s a good chance you’ll recognize something of yourself in that movement too.

*This review was made possible by SubmitHub