Every morning as a child, I’d wake up and watch music videos. The toss-up between MTV and VH1: who’d play what? Will I get Bush or Naughty-by-Nature? Eminem or Smashmouth? Shaggy or Mystical? Reality was I always enjoyed the slow bangers. The rare videos that’d be played typically around 11pm or 3am. Nothing too weird, but certainly not commercially digestible, etc.
Then came along Stephani Smith, who changed my mind on music, just after Elliott Smith and Either/Or, directing my attention to how much I shouldn’t have ignored Sunny Day Real Estate or My Bloody Valentine. Mineral, American Football, and Big Star became huge hype. The underdog winning the American race, once again, and I’m the little man on totem pole.
Jemez takes a similar music-video and past-love nostalgia, mingling a mentality that’s blissfully gazed in the annals of rock-and-roll bangers. Jemez, their self-titled album, soars and rids one of all hateful or spite-driven memories of the past, resetting them on a clean-slate, eternal sunshine. Sleep on it:
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