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 Everett True

Song of the day – 446: Coasting

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Coasting road trip

Coasting.

The vocals are lost some way over there. The cymbals and hi-hats – and the drums appear to be ALL cymbals and hi-hats – sound like they were mixed in another room. Fuck that. Another block altogether. The vocals are tinny and grating and repetitive and slyly harmonic and if you’re reading any of those words as an insult you really aren’t familiar with my tastes, are you? We’re talking Look Blue Go Purple. We’re talking The Vivian Girls stripped of the 60s West Coast stuff and with layers of mid 80s Dunedin stuff added in its place. (Sweet!) We’re talking the sort of music that – given half a chance – has already wedged itself into one ear, acted like paint stripper on those annoying hairs, and is now burrowing its way into that part of your brain marked “fond receptacle” and it ain’t going to fucking move, no way. We’re talking Go-Go’s without any of the polish. (No, fuck you. The reason I don’t give male reference points is because there just aren’t enough males out there making decent enough music to be cited without it seeming tokenistic). We are definitely talking a certain living room in Walthamstow, Greater London in 1981, the entire room set up around one battered two-track recorder. Or not.

Probably not, when I think of it.

Mysterious, plaintive, this band has suffered one too many rain-filled Tuesdays. I don’t have the slightest clue who Coasting are, not even which continent they come from.

Read Scott Creney’s words on Coasting instead. He’s more eloquent. And he quotes the “best poem about winter ever”.

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