Loggerhead indeed resembles being trapped in your own head. I know this isn't an original thought, and I'm almost certain that Wu-Lu said as much himself somewhere (this is going to be one of those "do your own research" type situations because I'm not going to find the quote for you), but there isn't a better thematic explanation for the album's sound. The London producer and hip-hopper, like many of us, must have spent a great deal of time in solitary confinement at the start of the pandemic and Loggerhead is the consequential, psycho-acoustic repercussion of such an event. Wu-Lu's steady, groaning flow glides just below the surface of the production's damp haze like a cockroach perceptibly skimming between the wallpaper and drywall, drooping ever so slightly until it drips out of sight like a floating, oily pimple. The observations of his wondering lyricism triangulates the detritus of disjointed events in one's life until the form a confrontational web of concessions and confessions, routing patterns of thought into collisions with dangling flypaper traps and seizing the mind with fear as might a home invader casting a shadow through an open bedroom doorway, or slowly needling away at one's resolve and sense of dignity akin to a streak of black mold one can see dripping down the wall behind them every time they look in the bathroom mirror. Loggerhead is suffused with a foggy kind of clarity, a disassociative unity, and a deranged kind of alignment of post-punk, jazz, and trip-hop that all fit together like a rubik's cube covered in desaturated, Fincher-esque hues and warped into a deceptively tidy, Mobius strip-like passage. Hell might be other people, but living with yourself can be like double-booking an Air B'nB with the devil himself.
