Skip to main content

ain't it sad by Sleepy Poetry

Sleepy Poetry are dream-poppy, like The Wizard of Oz's dreamy poppies, best listened to pull yourself into slumber, late-nite, as you unpack the day's sum of dialogue, perform existential calculations, assess who-am-I assays. "I think too much, / I always will," sings Jody Bettencourt, backing that claim throughout ain't it sad with lyrical verve.

Stylistically, the band's got the dream pop vibes, the reverb wetted snares and sustained synth, the moody middle frequency guitars, a touch dissonant. And, of course, like any forgiving band, the whole production's tempo is set to danceable. There's also a sense that this Asheville, North Carolina band could be lost descendants of new wave but... namecalling genres is for those who don't dance at Coachella.

Consider the first two tracks a warm-up, Sleepy Poetry stretching their limbs for their new explorations in synth. In the second half, this record hits even harder. The stellar finisher "Talking (Saying Nothing)" juxtaposes an endless drip with mindless babble, and showcases a sticky chorus one can imagine being shouted along by a dedicated, house show crowd.

Sleepy Poetry delves into the self-aware particulars, but seeks release from all the swirl, too; "Thinkin bout the wind blowing away my wasted body kinda soothes my soul." If these songs arise from sleepy poems, what happens when this band jolts awake and fully realizes their vision? You can kinda sense the results will be pretty dreamy. Released 5/3/19. Listen below and follow their Instagram here or Facebook here.

Popular posts from this blog

The Art Of Blowing Things Up by Kill me, ACE!

Kill me, ACE! expertly tag themselves as "new rave" and recently put out a slick three-track EP from their hometown of Chernigov, Ukraine. This record re-energizes indie rock with wild discotheque frenzy at hummingbird heart rate tempos. Electro textures flare out like explosions animated in pixel art. Frazzled synths blare, guitars frenetically pierce, the bass keeps thumping.

On "Thing Two", the band blows up the guitar into funky bits and staccato jamming. Kill me, ACE! sings mesmerizingly, "I like a town where nothing happens," haunted by some dark event. Let no thing go unblownup, on the last track, an innocuously jazzy introductory drum roll appears at a crackly low bit rate before the track devolves and forced reboots, cutting to a sinister snaking synth line and whacked out noise interludes like amplified printers.

The coolest of the cool sounds from the eastern front of indie rock. Still teasing more tracks to come, this band, like its synthpop,…

Cycle of disillusionment and inspiration

I dislike sites that simply stop posting without explanation. Brotherly Fuzz was a fun experiment. I have lost steam. A week went by without a post, now six weeks. Not abnormal, of course, for amateur bloggers to fizzle quickly. Simultaneously, I am caught in a depressed funk, where it becomes hard to conjure words, think thoughts, move limbs.

I may return here, place less pressure on frequent updates. Hell, maybe even soon, since I have trouble predicting my actions from hour to hour, even. When the negativity fades and nostalgia remains, perhaps I'll return. Perhaps this project will restart perpetually in a cycle of disillusionment and inspiration.

Ultimately, I have little faith in music blogs, which are knowingly endangered. I feel like I'm doing bands a disservice; I only provide them with one person's feedback, I am unable to find them a wider audience. Perhaps time will bring more listeners, but I'm doubtful. Moreover, it feels weird linking people to my analys…

Depths of Hell by Pink Oranges 47

Both eerie and poppy, Pink Oranges 47 is cool, outlawish indie rock. An anonymous project without biographical photo or name credits, all we know about Pink Oranges 47 is the sounds are produced in Fredericton, New Brunswick.

Throughout the record, sparse daubs of guitar yield to boom-baps, samples shifted and warped, purring and oscillating drones. The vocals, sometimes hushed, are commanding and burly. Gregorian-esque oh's harmonize in the background. There's a refrain about "the snake man lookin' down on Satan" and grinning faces watching you at night. Opener "Low" stands out, kinda Western sounding, trudging along, really catchy.

Depths of Hell is experimental but avoids being abrasive or alienating. The abstract textures are inviting, almost soothing, like a radiator's plinks at night. Distortion frosts the instruments and vocals. Pace changes often, creating a sense of the unexpected, but the mood stays the same: dark, foreboding, and surreal. R…