Cherry; Grape; Watermelon; Tiger’s Blood; — the purplish drip of an oxidized wound.
Exhaust fumes tinge the air with sulfur as Shojo Winter turns to the row of nozzles mounted on the truck’s left side. Oversaturated photographs of oranges and pineapples denote the flavor of syrup that each tap holds — the sap that collects in the dregs of a styrofoam cup, tasting faintly of rust as your plastic spoon fishes out a marooned ice shaving, leaking juice on your t-shirt as you bring it to your lips.
The band slowly pushes their cup across the metal grate, carefully collecting an equal amount of each syrup. Their latest EP release, Darkest Chances is a “suicide” mix of traditional dream-pop tropes: the mucoid twang of the Cocteau Twins’ signature guitar tone, the anthemic minimalism of The Cure’s Disintegration, My Bloody Valentine’s cramped aural spaces, and even Guided By Voices’ answering-machine tinniness.
Bleeding into scooped frost, Shojo Winter’s sludgy and overwhelmingly sweet. It’s the soreness in your front teeth after taking the first bite or a post-sip brain freeze.
Molasses thick. Oil puddles on the pavement. Pour me another.
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