Sunken into a swell broken chair, best for sitting and writing and reading about baseball and perusing pictures of crowds, with a cold glass of IPA in the crook of my arm, I can smell the hops from a full foot away, or whatever the distance between my face and ribs, and this is wonderful; a direct line of smell from inverse elbow to my face. Why all the Summit? It was on sale and I can’t afford fancy individual beers every night, do you think money grows on some sort of easy to care for house plant, like a golden cactus or something?
This record is brand new, or at least less than a month old, and I am loving it. Dreary distopian dark down-under synth pop. These keyboard chord changes will stick in your head like a dream you want to tell people about just to talk yourself through it. Not like a funny dream or a sexy dream but like a dream that’s all atmosphere, and nothing really happens but it’s kind of cold and you have a soul itch.
The vocals sink into the mixes, get lost in reverb and slow moving progressions. It sounds musty, it sounds like a house show, a good one, one that’s packed and sweaty and goes off like an actual show where people are actually there to see bands and not a shitty party where you don’t know anybody and the bands aren’t really bands but stoned party goers who are only interested in playing if it helps them hook up. I have been to both of these shows.
This sounds like laying on the hood of a car parked in a field at night, looking at stars and saying mildly philosophical things, that might be profound at the time. A July night, one where it doesn’t cool off when the sun goes down, so you just give it all over and see how much you can sweat while doing absolutely nothing.