My 7-inch copy of Semifloral comes tucked into a off-white sleeve, tinged with the yellowed hue of unbrushed molars or the butter pecan ice cream that’s eating away at them. Its surface is printed with chlorophyll extracted from spinach leaves, leaving Slimer-like apparitions of album artwork across the Ace Bandage canvas. Even down to its visual and tactile aesthetics, Chicago’s Monogamy revels in residuals — “Twenty-Twenty” sheds stray squalls of wriggling saxophone while “Finally Happy” sends gloomy tufts of power chord twang into the aether like a blown dandelion; “Figuring Out the Shower” is a tooth-loss dream turned pop single, a minute’s worth of acoustic plunks and charming two-part harmonies.
Semifloral smells like spinach. It looks like a black bologna disc in a paper supermarket bag. It sounds like the center of the earth.
There is a free bottle of pop when you’re foresaken