A song drifting heavy-lidded through elapsed space of where gone memories go, returning imprints and examples burned sensory pure, expanse in a present state. American Pleasure Club - formerly Teen Suicide - with a wasted ode, a handful of feathers, moments ambered in song (“beneath the palms when the light starts to leave”) for that piecemeal sense of the misspent (“slumped down, he’s down for the count”). Something about highly melodic, down and out vignettes met with every beatific guitar tone possible to make it really pop on the money. And there’s gonna be A Whole Fucking Lifetime of This.
More about: American Pleasure Club, Ricky Eat Acid, Teen Suicide
