Waves of swelling guitar fuzz, laser beams of feedback, and spacey slurred vocals all coagulate in a dense stew which one doesn’t so much listen to as immerse oneself in. Song titles appear random (“Lost Bitches”, anyone?), but then again the band is called Coconuts, so you can’t say you weren’t warned. Just what vocalists Tim Evans and Jordan Redaelli might be singing at any given time is a tough call, as their reverbed voices tend to either sink into the mix like another instrument, or float ethereally above it like a different kind of feedback. Ultimately, who cares? This three-piece excels at creating moody stoner mindscapes that use sound as building blocks, creating dense sonic structures that invite you to enter and lie down a while. By all means do so. Just remember, this isn’t the stuff to listen to while operating heavy machinery. Or any machinery at all, really.
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// Notes from the Road
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