Self Titled: Stoner music. The smell of weed clinging to everything that you own. Jamming with your friends in your parent’s garage. Bloody noses. Bruised knuckles. Shitty arcade games from the eighties.
D Sides: Black light. Shitty bowling alleys in the middle of nowhere. Having fizzy drinks come out of your nose. Broken glass. Molotov cocktails. Fluorescent lights. Fading highway lines that stretch on forever. Knock off raybans.
Demon Days: Edgy. Drawing on your sneakers with sharpie. Chain smoking. Old zombie movies. Dance music tinged with murder. Being suicidal but seeing the beauty in living.
Plastic Beach: Being shipped to summer camp. Sunlight burning you to a crisp. Old tubes of paint. Music playing far away in the distance. Sand beneath your toes. Sun burn.
The Fall: Mid November. Being stuck in a hotel room in a city that you’ve never been to. Smoking on curbs. Crying but you don’t know why. Pills making your mind go blurry. Feeling numb all the time.
Humanz: Vibrant. Mid July. Drugs, but quality drugs that make you fuzzy for hours. Fancy bar cocktails. Hickeys. Waking up in a stranger’s bed. The scratchy sound that old records make. A TV just buzzing with white noise. Knowing all the lyrics to songs that you’ve never heard. Lipstick. Tights.
The Now Now: Happy music playing in a horror movie. Target’s in the middle of the night when no one is there but the lights are still on and the store is still open. A room full of creepy old dolls all smiling at you. Subtly full of rage with everything and everyone.
