Crystal Stilts
In Love With Oblivion

Tonight I'm taking a leap to the moon. I'm tired of the Earth, its mediocrities, its dreary Friday nights between solitary glasses and extinguished cigarettes at the corners of deserted bars. There's a trail of indolent noise-pop courtesy of Crystal Stilts that takes you there for free. On the moon, they always play loud, you never work, the organs have the sound of the most carefree '60s, the trees smell of sunny reverbs, and there are still people who dance cheek to cheek to songs so beautiful they intoxicate your soul. I know the secret to getting there. Turn on the stereo, focus on any point on the cover of 'In Love With Oblivion' by my beloved New Yorkers Crystal Stilts and start ''Through The Floor''. It's a moment: it's a sonic journey you can't miss.

At reduced speed on crystal stilts along radiant bursts of garage psychedelia ("Blood Barons", "Invisible City") through the jangle-pop of silvery ballads ("Flying Into The Sun", "Silver Sun") and the bright and sudden super-catchy flashes of "Half A Moon" and "Shake The Shackles", in the company of sleepy velvet aliens ("Prometheus At Large") and the sticky black and white choruses of "Through The Floor" and "Precarious Stair", the journey is all a revival of introverted sonic experiences already tried ("Sycamore Tree").

A 'back to' in slow motion between psych garage guitars, vintage tambourines, beat-surfy psychedelia, and dark undertones of a voice so baritone it touches the depths of the blackest space. And Brad Hargett really gives it his all to plunge into this dark jungle of ebony constellations. So, once again, the Brooklyn wanderers of the sixties rock revival hit the mark by repeating the formula that works: hypnotic bass lines, layers of infectious riffs, an ivory drum in the background, and organs like lysergic shooting stars; all condensed in a firmament of garage noise in total absence of gravity.

When you finally set foot on this acidic moon, dazed and excited, you no longer know how to return. You don't want to return. The Earth from here is even more beautiful. Ears muffled, space is expanded, here it's all a reverb of deaf and lo-fi sonic suggestions. On the electric moon of Crystal Stilts, you weigh nothing, and every desire is a command; you can play slow, cavernous melodies all night reminiscent of the dirty rock of Velvet Underground or hallucinogenic Morrisonian lullabies. You can sing, you can dance, you can scream, you can smoke your memories and the future with a pack of twenty in a refrain of emotions so strong that almost, without realizing it, you end up falling in love with this attractive and depraved oblivion too.