Stella Donnelly’s latest album, Love and Fortune, is a raw and intimate journey through heartbreak—not just romantic, but the kind that comes from losing a friendship. And this is the part most people miss: it’s born from not one, but two breakups—one personal, the other professional. After the release of her 2022 album Flood, Donnelly felt burned out, took a step back, and was eventually dropped by her label, Secretly Canadian. She found herself working at a cemetery and then a bakery in Melbourne, questioning whether her music career was even worth pursuing. But here’s where it gets controversial: it was this very detachment from the industry’s expectations that allowed her to create something truly authentic. Love and Fortune is a low-key, almost hymnal record, crafted with friends and free from the pressure of growth-driven demands. It’s the kind of album that might never have existed in a more commercial setting—and that’s what makes it so special.
These dual breakups seem to have brought Donnelly closer to her core than ever before. Her 2019 debut, Beware of the Dogs, tackled injustice with humor and wit, while Flood explored the awkwardness of intimacy. But Love and Fortune feels different—it’s suspended in a stunned haze, as Donnelly grapples with the void left by a friendship’s end. She sifts through regrets, doubt, and righteousness, but ultimately stands bewildered, unable to fully make sense of the loss. It’s a deeply personal record, yet universally relatable in its exploration of human connection and disconnection.
Early in her career, Donnelly was often compared to Courtney Barnett, both lumped into the Aussie indie rock archetype. But here’s where it gets controversial: while Barnett and Donnelly share a starting point, their paths have diverged dramatically. Donnelly’s strength lies in her ability to blend choirgirl vocal purity with conversational delivery and innate melodicism. It’s as if her voice could float on the breeze, effortless yet captivating. Love and Fortune nods to classic Antipodean indie rock—think opener “Standing Ovation” with its Chills-esque twang or the post-punk grit of “W.A.L.K.”—but it’s the stripped-down, pearlescent moments that truly shine. Here, Donnelly’s voice stands almost bare, and it’s more than enough.
Take “Baths,” a song that imagines Donnelly’s life in utero as her mother protests, the water rushing in like a wild river. Sung against faint synths, the song carries a lambent promise, yet it’s tinged with unease—“photos with the family/Might be the last time.” It’s one of the few tracks not explicitly about her broken friendship, but it subtly suggests that every beginning carries the seed of an end. Then there’s “Friend,” where her voice is grave and weighty, paired with a low, clear piano motif. The song moves slowly, solemnly, as if trying to stretch the irretrievable just a little longer. “Am I happier now/Than I was then?” she asks—a question that hits like a gut-punch, echoing Hua Hsu’s Stay True in its raw exploration of loss and connection.
Love and Fortune is more than an album; it’s a testament to the power of vulnerability and the beauty of letting go. But here’s where it gets controversial: in an industry that often prioritizes growth and commercial success, is there still room for records like this—ones that feel small, personal, and unapologetically human? Donnelly’s album challenges us to think about what truly matters in art. Is it the scale of its reach, or the depth of its honesty? What do you think? Does authenticity thrive in the absence of expectation, or is there value in striving for something bigger? Let’s discuss in the comments.
