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The return of Everett True | 49. Violet Swells

The return of Everett True | 49. Violet Swells
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A little diversion away from the main frame. I hope you don’t mind. A passing fancy, an object so slight and ephemeral that if you stand at the wrong angle you might not see it at all for fear of the sunlight glancing off its sides. Yes, music has sides.

On one level, it’s deeply in thrall to the psych pop explosion of the late 60s. Like that bothers me, in the context of THIS WONDERMENT and THIS BEAUTY. On another level, it’s deeply in thrall to the pysch pop…um, I’m not sure I should be using the word explosion here, the jury is out on this one still…happening across Australia in 2014. On yet another level, it’s good time summery summer-in-the-city-and-I-want-to-fuck-your-children pop music that’s never not gonna appeal to me on yet another, ‘nother level. (Revolving Paint Dream, I’m looking your way. But I could be looking the way of a multitude of bands, from a multitude of eras. I’m merely presenting you with one familiar to me.) Sorry about the use of the double negative. It’s for emphasis, you understand – not the double negative of ‘(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction’, that would be absurd. I like this shit (Proper Music Journalism, © Everett True 2014).

I mean, it’s Syd Barrett. Of course it’s Syd Barrett. You look at me like I’m typing those words like some sorta insult, like he was Jeff Buckley or someone. I am so fucking not. We’re talking summery, optimistic, acid-tinged (not tainted) Syd before everything went all wild and woolly. Revolving Paint Dream, in other words. Yeah, yeah.

This quote on the BandCamp sums it up sorta nicely, sorta not. Baroque rock.

Sounds like “Sgt Pepper” era Beatles mixed with Tame Impala. Sounds much like you’d expect a psychedelic rock band to sound. Brings back that vintage sound filled with lush organ and tinny guitar.

Yeah, of course.

Here’s the video. Great fucken minimal melody and sequenced vocal sounds. I just don’t want it to stop frankly, its effect on my pleasure centres. Cheaper than all those late nights with cocaine. Way, way cheaper. And way more fulfilling, frankly.

Man. Hobart is rapidly topping the list of cities I would choose to move to if ever I leave the sunshine behind.

I swear, this is the first time I’ve missed Alan McGee’s friendship in nearly three decades.

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