Armchair Martian convey a sorrow, a loneliness, and a human warmth that’s made country affect a larger number of Americans than any other genre, hands down.
All these groups sound like a buncha frat guys whose parties you’d go to for the chicks and the beer, but you wouldn’t cross the quad to see ‘em, y’know?
Once again, Creedle prove themselves to be one of the mysterious algebraic variables of indie rock, the ever-changing x factor in a sea of equatic simplicity.
The fattest sound in distorted guitars and deep, heartfelt singing that make me feel like a child getting a big hug by St. Nick every time I listen to Fluf.
The guitars make a collage of painterly abstract art, and the drums are an eraser following close behind, smudging everything into new and less coherent forms.