Elizabeth Ziman always returns. 

Ziman, also known as indie-rock artist Elizabeth & the Catapult (E&TC), is a New York City native who’s been writing songs since she was a kid. Her recently released album, Responsible Friend, will be her fifth under the E&TC name. She’s been praised by Los Angeles radio legend Novena Carmel, made NPR’s New Music Friday, and toured with Sara Bareilles — just the kind of indie darling always teetering on the edge of viral fame. 

Her past albums have been about dreams, childhood, and heartbreak. This one, however, has a more grounded philosophy: How can she be a better friend? Though the title track, “Responsible Friend,” takes a more tongue-in-cheek approach — the responsibility, in this case, is to not mess up a longtime platonic relationship by starting a romantic one — it’s an ever-present theme throughout the record. 

The opener, “I Love You Still,” catches the heart immediately. Written at a friend’s hospital bedside, it’s a letter of relentless care. She knows she can’t fix her friend’s problems, but she can return her love to them again and again. It’s a melancholic, violin-tinged opening to a record that’s otherwise not nearly as dark, but it feels like a fitting prologue. Its placement makes it impossible to forget what was on Ziman’s mind while writing the album. 

Elsewhere on the record, she explores how to grow up — or how to be a “responsible friend” to herself. In a distinctly New York City song, she talks about “Learning to Drive,” despite being roughly two decades out of college. She grapples with change as she reflects on the removal of her wisdom tooth in “Goodbye Wisdom,” adding to an excellent canon of songs about teeth with the line, “Don’t take my wisdom tooth out/Please don’t change me for the better.” It’s a series of witty reflections on growth, underscored by a Bareilles-style band paired with a synth hook. She grows tired of her own company on “Bored of Myself,” a ramble about the loneliness of artistry. 

Some of the strongest and weakest songs on the record emerge as Ziman tries to grapple with the world outside of her control. The lead single, “50/50,” is a low point, a classic listicle song about the unfairness of the world. In our current political moment, it feels a little tired. Given that the record is partially a product of the pandemic, it unintentionally comes across more as if she realized the world is unfair for the first time when the bad things finally reached her doorstep. However, the chorus is nice — Ziman’s classical piano training emerges in the unique chord progression she chooses for her descent into wonder. 

One of the highlights is a song requested by a fan on Instagram at the peak of the pandemic: Ziman was asked to craft an anthem for the doctors who were staying up all night to treat patients while they themselves were terrified. Her response, “When the Doctor Needs a Doctor,” is a portrait of a woman abandoned by support networks while dealing with tragedy after tragedy. It has just enough of an Aimee Mann-style bite to keep the tension and resolution flowing under Ziman’s beautiful vocal timbre, which shines here among the likes of Tori Amos and Mann herself. 

“Cellophane” is a song about the impact of climate destruction on animals, which risks preachiness that is thankfully nowhere to be found. Instead, Ziman creates a devastating tale of loss with the most poetic imagery on the album. Through tales of mermaids and skies and whales, she focuses on questions rather than statements, making us face the destruction firsthand. The instrumentation twinkles and grows as she finally places the blame on “an unruly man who denies what is gone,” before letting it go to finish as quietly as it began. It’s a reminder that what we return to over and over is what once was, not the reason it’s gone — a necessary reminder as society grapples with a world changing faster than ever. 

“Lost Time” and “90 Years Young” are both sweet dedications to loved ones, the former a friend living with long COVID and the latter her late great-aunt. “Lost Time” includes some very nice plucked strings, and “90 Years” is another showcase of Ziman’s wonderfully resonant voice. 

The record closes with “Stay,” a song about a lover who just won’t leave you. For the first time on the album, it’s not Ziman returning to something, but someone returning to her — and she doesn’t want them to. It’s bitterly descriptive, as she describes cooking hamburger melts and the exact Chet Baker song she was listening to the last time they came back. But for all its lyrical bluster, it’s a remarkably relaxed song, as if perhaps some part of her doesn’t really mean what she says. What did we learn in the very first song? Elizabeth Ziman loves you no matter what. 

For a record steeped in loss, it’s far from sad. Instead, Ziman focuses on what was, what could be, and what will be forever. Reflective, but only as a means of looking forward to a better self — which we could all use a little more of. The world’s tired arms are wide open, and Responsible Friend is here to fill them.