Cold Creeks

I've been swatting the SHUFFLE button with over 100 hours of music on my phone lately. 

It isn't that I don't enjoy anything anymore. It isn't that I'm in a rut. It's that nothing seems to lead me down the road of obsession quite how I want it to. 

Yes, the stressors of everyday life are creeping all up on my available time to fondle my hobby of writing about music that touches me inappropriately. But I'm  not ignoring the fact that nothing has really made me want to swoop it up in my arms, slam my door shut, lock it, and then mutually accost myself alongside it while tea candles flicker on the window sills of my love dungeon. 

But then I click on the bandcamp link for the PREQUEL EP from Cold Creeks. 

The first track "Bluebirds" is some of the finest lofi'd blues pop I've ever laid my fucking ears on. That dusty fucking guitar sounds like it's plugged into a pignose amp on some mountain cabin porch, and the reverby twang that drops down about half way through the track is just as eerily gorgeous as the pairing of backing vocals over lead vocals. 

This feels like PHOX and Alabama Shakes, but with a glistening fucking dew drenched tree branch shoved up the ass of my expectations. This song is fucking gorgeous. 

As the EP progresses I pick up on the direction Cold Creeks is sauntering in. Aimless and kicking dirt down a deserted highway-like free, these assholes seem to enjoy that 15 minutes in between awake and sleep, and they've managed to somehow put that feeling into something audible, because it's pillow-like, and I'm just as comfortable cuddling myself as I am imagining myself playing these guitar licks.

I fucking love music that makes me force cuddle myself. I need the fucking attention, serious.

"Mr. Blue Face" is one of those ambling twinkle shits that you could throw on repeat for a few hours as you doodles the dew doodles on the picnic table with the moisture from your sweaty beer bottle.

The reverb on that fucking guitar on "Stormclouds" is insulting with how fucking relaxed it feels though. Fuck that reverb. Fuck that reverb in its non-corporate coffee house part time job that lets it rehearse three times a week and gig out the other four nights. 

At the ass-end of this EP, the track "Zugzwang" walks out and all of a sudden this band drops trou and displays the matching Queensryche tattoos they each share upon their punk ass asscheeks. Now I understand how methodical and mathematical their riffage seems, because now I'm assuming that their cribs were pushed up against an apartment wall that was shared with a 80s hair-band geek who was so deep into Dream Theater that the fanny pack that held his hairbrush and denim jacket patches he has yet to ask his mom to affix to his denim jacket is just as turquoise as the winter jacket he only wears when it's too cold for denim. 

I should probably obsess over these assholes huh?