Brothertiger
Apache Feathers

Cosmos, ether, and Eden, incarnate in music.

Bring chaos to the record of this cute and kind boy, wrap yourself in his five dream pop songs and make me travel in mysterious mental journeys that taste of cobalt, in glances never concluded, in suggestions to savor and incinerated nostalgia.

Because this is true dream pop, not the postcard version from Valtour typical of people like Washed Out; this is the frantic and alarming whisper of a dreamlike epic, of dreams in the closet that make wardrobes explode, of constellations destined for death, yet not hesitating to shine. 

It is pure emotion traveling in a piece of rare beauty, THE piece of a restless and fascinating record: "Feel", apotheosis of the soul, which breaks the heart and makes you cry. Trip to paradise and no return. Waterfalls of lulling sounds and whispered cries of melancholy. Probably the only song on this album that could repeat infinitely and always reveal itself beyond everything, alien, heartfelt, devastating. 

It's an album that feels like a mysterious revival, a dusty vinyl that suddenly resurrects a forgotten summer from its ashes. A sunlit yet melancholy summer, filled with almost glamorous charm and restless ghosts ("A House Of Many Ghosts"), with acid-laden folk lullabies that slightly resemble Animal Collective and a bit like Neon Indian, but then makes you realize that the comparisons are meaningless and snobbish ("Best-Thing Out Of Some-Thing"). 

It's one of those records that, if listened to again in a different mood, can inexplicably irritate and, like a kaleidoscope, varies its face depending on who observes it. A continuous ride of poignant and amused acid-folk roads, of electronic beats and lullabies. 

It makes you travel, but it decides where to drag you, whether to an endless sunset ("In The Sun") or into an ocean of solemn apnea and restless embolism ("Look Out Below"), where you abandon yourself to the incessant splash of music. Rain. Driving rain. Fires. Sand. Beaches. 

Like a mad music box, like a Truffaut film under LSD, like a gaze with dilated pupils without an iris, like a one-way ticket to your glances, "Apache Feathers" is served.