The eclectic, psychedelic band released a two-track single last month.
The title track enlivens a hip-shaking funk groove with strutting keyboard flourishes and intricate sprays of smacked hand drums. Harding’s lyrics are simultaneously heady and sensual, evoking both spiritual strife and bacchanalian rapture, often within the same thought (“Rain won’t fall in cluttered mind/Ripe with words of flesh and rind/But no wind those words can find/Without a voice our fate is blind”). Existential struggle is rarely so danceable.
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