Bailey Grey’s “Love It All” is evidence of an artist who’s lived more lives than most and has the sonic scars to prove it. This LP is a serious roller coaster, and we’re all just strapped in for the wild, riff-heavy ride.
Let’s get one thing straight: Bailey Grey is no overnight sensation. This is an artist forged in the fire of Broadway stages and in the hallowed halls of London’s Royal Central School of Speech and Drama. She’s a road-hardened troubadour who cut her teeth not in sterile studios, but in the gritty, real-world trenches of performance. That history screams through every track.
The title track, “Love It All,” sets the stage not with a whisper, but with a defiant, anthemic charge. It’s about embracing the whole damn chaotic mess of life—the adversity, the triumphs, the pain, the joy. This isn’t a passive, peaceful acceptance; it’s a raging, active choice to find the spark in the darkness. Grey’s creative process is a beast in itself. Sometimes a song arrives as a full-blown orchestra in her head, other times it’s a simple, dirty guitar riff that won’t let go. And she’s got a secret weapon in the booth: her producer and collaborator, Sam Cook-Stuntz. Together, they’re a creative bunch, translating these visions into a wall of sound that feels both cooked and spontaneous.
Then you get hit with the one-two punch of tracks like “Out in Under” and “Battle Cry.” “Out in Under” comes with a jazzy pop-twist, but don’t let that fool you—it’s got teeth. It’s slick, but it’s got a gritty undertow. And “Battle Cry”? Holy hell. This is where the album truly bares its fangs. Complemented by an emotive, wailing harmonica that’s more John Lee Hooker than campfire singalong, this track is a raw nerve. It’s about the isolation of trying to fit in, the noise of the crowd drowning out your own truth. When Grey snarls about needing to get “farthest away from the crowd” to make the truth seem loud, it’s a scream for anyone who’s ever felt buried alive by expectation. This is rock ‘n’ roll as survival.
But the ride doesn’t stop there. “Use Me” kicks in with a playful, almost sinister piano groove that builds into something monumental. The subject matter? A healthy, fearless take on death that has already struck a deep chord with fans. This isn’t theoretical; it’s real. The story of a mother using the song for her son’s end-of-life ceremony is the kind of punch that separates mere entertainment from art that matters. This is the power of rock—to connect, to heal, to scream into the void with others.
The album shifts gears again with the blue-eyed soul of “Get Lost,” which boasts expressive, cinematic vocals that could fill a stadium, and the alt-rock vibes of “Nothing” which delivers a pure jolt of electricity. Then there’s “When I Fall,” with its springy, sweet ukulele—a nod to one of the first songs Grey ever wrote, now reimagined. It’s a moment of light, a breath before the final plunge.
And what a plunge it is. The album closes with “Easy,” an intimate, acoustic, and perfectly imperfect live rendition. It’s the final, conclusive proof that Bailey Grey doesn’t need layers of production. She’s got the pipes and the soul to stand alone with a guitar and silence a room.
“Love It All” is an autobiography set to a blistering soundtrack. Bailey Grey isn’t asking for your permission; she’s taking her space, screaming her truth, and inviting us to do the same. So, wind this album to eleven, let the polyrhythmic harmonies and guitar work move over you, and get ready to love it all—the noise, the silence, the chaos, and the sheer, glory of it all.