Wavves
Afraid Of Heights

I am a rock of a Caucasian male. Rambo can't hold a candle to me. But if by pure chance I approach a height difference that exceeds 7-8 meters, things change. Those who, like me, suffer from vertigo know what I'm talking about.
The legs become two wobbling puddings, the sky and the earth under our feet begin to rotate with the intent of swapping places, and we are no longer subject to gravity. This happens in the span of two seconds; by the third, the anguish of imminent death sets in, manifesting in a couple of liters of cold sweat. Taking one step back would be enough to come back to myself, but regaining control over the lower limbs requires no less than another 20 seconds, during which we repeatedly see death mock us.

Fortunately, vertigo doesn't play a part with the record. Only death does. If in the previous “King of the Beach” a sneering paranoid laziness reigned, here psychosis has extended to the impotent rage of depressive states. Shards of acid garage alternate with stagnant pools of introverted psych-rock. Tones of resignation and affliction are exacerbated through static rage, filtered so it can be released as music.
Who knows what goes through Nathan Williams' mind; apparently, bundles of hatred towards the world (Lounge Forward), a sense of uselessness with an annexed desire to end it all (Demons To Lean On), total bewilderment (Paranoid), loneliness (with Afraid Of Heights repeating “I’ll always be on my own”); even the episodes that can be defined as cheerful (Beat Me Up and Cop) talk respectively about the desire to be beaten and the killing of a cop followed by shampooing and cuddles from the wifey.

Put this way, it seems like music for repressed 14-year-olds with bangs, and I assure you it is, but it damn rocks. By the way, there are ingenious things in this album like the acoustic litany of “Dog,” the choral section of the title track, the whiny singing in “Demons to Lean On,” the continuous surf infiltrations hidden under the lo-fi coat, the treble-punk slap of “Sail to The Sun,” or the unexpected sweetness of “I Can’t Dream,” where the only clean guitars clear a centuries-old fog.

Truly remarkable. Give it a try.