Crystal Stilts
Crystal Stilts EP

High Heels 12 or Crystal Stilts, it doesn't matter if the step is fast and skims the air, spreading electric vibrations. The step is fast and leaves no hesitation, it's heading straight to the Night Club at the end of the street. Yes, suffering is truly a weakness when we can do something better. Not everyone should read the pages that follow; only a few can savor this poisonous fruit without danger. For you, it's melancholy, for me it's an underground and suburban sweetness, the 80s buried alive in underground alcoves between smoke, latex, and Sisters Of Mercy. For you, it will be an obsession, for me, it's trust.

It's like diving into those Jangle Pop sparks of Crystal Stilts in their self-titled debut EP from 2005, a sparkling sound from the background of a suburban basement, a compass rose of captivating sounds dominated by the magnetic and guttural timbre of lead singer Brad Hargett. Jumping into the underground darkness of a reverberated oblivion, rock 'n roll was a golden scam and everyone recycled from the next door neighbor, but here there is no burglary, only swift and invisible hands emptying noble pockets of Albion's post-punk amid clouds of Lachgas, all wrapped in a cloud of hysteria, laughter, and derision. Shaun Ryder dancing to Beginning To See The Light in an XXL jumpsuit, Jesus And Mary Chain playing on a loop stuck on an elevator to Hell, Ian Curtis as a guest on Discoring.

The Joy Division playing like an Indie Pop band with $80 Sears guitars.

Add a rockabilly riff, mix in nursery school melodies from New York, on an accelerated bass line, and finally a layer of a sweet '60s surf organ riff. What's missing is the obsessive and sweet timbre of Brad Hargett, and there it is, freeing the perfect Armageddon. The sounds go all out but there is a white space around; a vacuum shelters like in the most faded pages of The Pale Fountains, here and there. And thus that sense of distance, a sort of radical chic detachment from the entire dispute, like Gruber in a designer suit commenting on world hunger. The soundtrack of surreal carnivals lived between Picasso and Tristan Tzara from the humid and dripping depths of a manhole, the light a small intermittent star between cobwebs and threads of darkness, soundtracks of surreal carnivals. The kind of worlds where when you're awake, you're unsure if it's a nightmare or not, but that dark universe that spawns whimsical dependencies, and then sounds of rundown and crooked Casio organs and drum machines. The faithful garage Pop that trusts in the mono/handcrafted scheme that will inevitably lead to a playful defeat, clinging to that histrionic groove and being dragged away and far before the world explodes. Descending into the bowels of the earth and dreams, going down those steep steps from the heights of the Mona Lisa's Dance of commerce, barefoot, discovering among the pounding notes of Converging The Quiet that underground party, that pastiche of notes, and that dancing bassline reverberating fragments of past and forgotten memory, of nights of Heroes immersed and cradled by the nocturnal beauty of a Greek sky.

Patricia Morrison staring you down at the center of the dance floor, coming towards You...

That coordinated and uncoordinated dance, at times epileptic, until Dawn.