Before BMSR tasted pop they were in the bedroom, Tobacco croaking out melodic little confessions of his own frailty, so close you can feel his whisper on your microphone ear. Synths churn and buzz on little loops like snow on suburban landscapes, all temporary and beautiful and glinting with crystals, with the occasional gorgeous little line of vocorder chiming or electronic buzz flitting by like, well, a rainbow, or maybe a remarkable moth.
Good band name.
It's slow-paced and underedited, but that's part of its charm, somewhere on the continuum of Grandaddy and The Microphones, twinking and small, until you can almost see the little forgotten flyover house in winter 3.5/5
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