There’s a track on sentence structure in the country called “the producer” where more eaze turns off the Auto-Tune, brings the mic close, and delivers what might be the most direct vocal performance of her career. “When the spittle seeps through the membrane, you’ve got a problem, the .wavs won’t transform your pain,” she sings, and it lands like a thesis statement. In the age of AI-generated voices, she is making a case for authentic feeling by showing you the wiring.

Mari Rubio, the Brooklyn-based composer and multi-instrumentalist behind the more eaze project, grew up playing fiddle in traditional folk and country scenes in Texas. You’d be forgiven for not hearing it immediately on sentence structure in the country. This is not country music in any conventional sense. But the vernacular is there, submerged in electronic texture, pedal steel sitting inside the mix like a dormant memory, country and folk idioms reconstructed into something that sounds more like ambient composition than anything you’d find in Nashville.

The result is quietly stunning. Rubio brings her treated, Auto-Tuned vocals to the front of the mix here in a way she hasn’t before, and the effect is something genuinely moving. On “distance,” she lingers on certain notes, her voice harmonizing with pedal steel that rises from the mix like a whale cresting above the waterline. On “leave (again),” surrounded by bubbly tones that slide and disappear amid vinyl crackle, she processes relationship trauma with a quiet, devastating composure: “If you only knew why I lock the doors, you’d say it’s illogical. And I’d say of course.”

What elevates the album is the collaboration. Jade Guterman (acoustic guitar), Wendy Eisenberg (electric guitar, piano, voice), Alice Gerlach (cello), and Ryan Sawyer (drums) each bring something irreplaceable. Sawyer in particular is essential. His percussion shows up as timbral ornamentation rather than rhythmic backbone, gentle snare rolls on “crunch the numbers” and “biters” that gesture at a sonic landscape without imposing on it. Gerlach’s cello injects urgent melody into the warped hoedown of the title track. Eisenberg and Guterman voice chords in ways that redefine the space around Rubio’s own playing.

The title track itself is a hero’s journey in miniature, beginning with a wind-blasted synth that accumulates various eccentric party members as it progresses. Guterman’s acoustic guitar crawls in, Gerlach’s squeaking cello follows, Eisenberg’s electric guitar harmonics trace an arc from cold desolation to something approaching transcendence.

This is music that rewards patience and rewards return visits. Rubio is not chasing a trend here. She is doing something genuinely her own, at the intersection of folk memory and electronic texture, and sentence structure in the country is the most realized version of it yet.