Words by Sean Moeller, Illustration by Johnnie Cluney, Sound engineering by Mike Gentry
Where this all comes from is foreign to me. This Brooklyn band called Suckers is an amalgamation of truly disparate proportions, settling us into a salty breeze with a fine drink in our hand and watching us blissfully wash clean away toward oblivion - an oblivion that they'd tag along with us to, it's just that they've got others to serve, others to send these ripples through. They wave at us from the sands on the land with huge watermelon wedge-shaped smiles on their faces, comfortably taking in the effects that they've just made. It's the way that they treat us, like guests, like their favorite guests, radiating out to us these confections free of any affectations or liabilities. It's as if they've gone to the trouble of doing all of the hard work that it would take for us to just relax, to just vegetate and still feel the stimulations abound - to have that happy medium of total escapism and a connection to the lovely parts of reality that you'd have no intention of chucking into the fire or the trash. The four songs from the young band's debut EP and the three new beauties recorded for the first time in this session are testament to all things that have wings, know how to use them and occasionally know how to get to the brink of being under-served and over-served. Suckers make music that is an elixir full of magical and mystical stuff that needs to be bulleting through your body, turning all of the light switches on, opening up all of the doors and windows and maybe helping whatever lurks inside of all of use violently and lustfully rip off all of their clothing. It's magnetic power and it feels like there's something very coveted in the core of it all, as if all of the plumage is eye candy and great eye candy at that, but we get drawn into the middle by some centrifugal force and this invisible vapor. The foursome makes sounds that are essentially relatives of some of the reasons why we get all flustered when thinking about other New Yorkers - New Yorkers by the names of Yeasayer, Animal Collective and TV On The Radio - bolstering them with new individualities and giving them striking new characteristics that make the resemblances more distant but lingering in the lineage or the thought waves. The songs are prisms, loaded with chambers and breaking light, diamond-encrusted glances and brisk autumn hues flirting with such euphoric joyousness that it penetrates into your head and heart like a speeding submarine. They sing about "twisted apple looks" and as the piano tinkles down and through your ears from one side to the other, it makes you think about pineapples and splashing your legs off the edge of a pier, losing all track of time, caught up in the simplicity of just being alive, thinking, "Really, how hard is this? It doesn't have to be." "Easychairs" and "Afterthoughts & TV" make you feel as if you are the hands that are squeezing fresh orange juice manually, holding the doomed pulp over the center of a glass and just working the liquid from the fruit's many tiny caves until it's completely dry and just rind. It feels happy. It feels as if we were all meant to be here, hearing, closing our eyes from the blinding brightness and just drifting off into this nice dreaminess. Lead singer Quinn Walker sings, "We'll find a simple way to talk/We'll find a way to turn it off," and it makes a person want to just unload, to just rid themselves of all of the weights and burdens break us down into the walking wounded and the soulless dogs that we usually look like. It makes us want to shed and finally be able to say that we know the right way to live.
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