"did you get to be who you are. and if not, then why. that, my friend, is the big why." - Michael Winter
07
Jan

pet sun – shade driver

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Pet Sun have tried to channel themselves into an EP. Released December 4th on Sleepless/The Hand, it drones, it solos, it is dark and greasy. Despite their best efforts, excess Hamilton psych-rock and roll leaks past these three songs. They are a slick oil spill sliding out from under the door of the garage, shining and releasing a smoky vapour that could maybe be contained – but probably just explored – with a few more songs.


This is the “Dark Planet”. Dust swirls around an empty street. On both sides, saloon doors swing open. Four boots step into the middle of the road to make a perfect square. Heels dig in. Sounds of hollow and warm, slow and sweet and slipping like bitter venom into veins. Rusted gun parts clank together, heavy when pulled from soft leather holsters worn from use. Soft vocals wrap metal machines in a cocoon of safety. They swing empty from belts, as owners swagger.

“Zenifer” is the hot sun shining down on the scene. She makes sweat drip down necks onto collars as spots of seeping damp wet warm. A poem of a repeated line; “Zenifer, you are my Zenifer, I think I’m outta my, my sweet sunshine… Zenifer, you are my Zenifer, I think I’m outta my, outta my mind.” While everyone else is distracted, the guitar breaks away. Empty spaces are filled with unexpected riffs like lines drawn in the sandy dirt.

A dark eyed love song to the mistress on the porch, her black Victorian dress is drawn up to her neck as she watches the men before her. They are preparing to fight and only one will win. “Mrs. Warp” had seen this before and she thinks it is a waste of time and life. She hears a voice saying to her, “if you lose everything you gain, just close your eyes and don’t be afraid. If you want to, want to slip away, just go to sleep and I will be there.” She gazes into the distance, praying for something to happen. A sharp spike of electric guitar emerges to break, but otherwise the horizon is empty. A slow march plays as the day beats forward like every other.

Original article by Kristin Conrad on Extreme Nonchalance.

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© Kristin Lee Conrad