You wake up on a Saturday morning without a plan or a care in the world. You don’t shower, don’t shave, don’t even change out of your PJs. You just get up and go. You hop in the car and you drive. A full tank, no destination, no timeframe, no thoughts. These are the best drives. You hit up that long, open, never-ending road, and you cruise. Windows down, top peeled back, shades and a lingering morning glaze. Coasting. The wind swirls, the clouds inch, the birds stuck still in the sky. The sun is your unchallengeable guide. You are listening to Hatchback.
SF-resident Samuel Milton Grawe, the man behind the Hatchback moniker, would have it this way. His album, Colors Of The Sun, shimmers, cascades, and floats like the West Coast backdrop he crafts his tunes to. Cosmically conjured, light-beam infused, and Kraut-driven, the album is itself an aerial journey along the seashore — staring at the sun with your eyes closed, the soft burn on your lids. Taking cues from contemporaries like Prins Thomas, Arp, and Quiet Village, Colors is not earth-shattering in its conception, but honorably flirts with epic proportions.
Opening track “Nesso” inhales a deep breath and rises slowly. Synth lines drift, mingle, and stack upon each other like red and yellow leaves in autumnal descent, forming a patchwork of subtle crunches underfoot. This is music in no hurry; in fact, its patience is what makes the seemingly effortless composition so compelling. Time is not wasted, nor is it a concern. Elsewhere, “Carefree Highway” recalls moments of Klaus Schulzeian oscillation with a light and breezy resolve that churns out pure buttery goodness. Soundtracking an Autobahn swoop route, it glidingly swerves past slow-pokes with just enough grit stuck to its chrome rims to keep them from blinding. Meanwhile, “White Diamond,” the album's standout track, is music for Grand Canyon gazing. It summons vast sweeping terrains from thin air, simple and majestic like a childhood crush. Losing yourself in its layers of languid laser tones is no chore.
Colors Of The Sun slowly settles and fades, bleeding into the “Horizon.” The gas gauge needle teeters on E. Dust and soot sediments scatter light like a shattered prism. The birds now roost in nest. There are no taillights ahead; no headlights approach. The tide has rolled. The road is cold. Home awaits. The tape in the cassette deck turns and turns, approaches the B-side’s conclusion. This ride was never about arrival. A green flash emits from where the sun’s crown exits. The sky slides into night.