Words by Sean Moeller, Illustration by Johnnie Cluney, Sound engineering by Mike Gentry
We know because we've met them, we've seen them, but on sound alone, the guys in Voxhaul Broadcast would be the kind of boys who would never be ashamed of being a wee bit unwashed. They wouldn't get bent out of shape were they to have hairs going this way and that and a mad scruff of scraggly beard rounding out their hedge of a chin. They walk about with long-sleeved shirts unbuttoned and melting from their bony bones, an undershirt of white cotton, V-necked and revealing a thick shag of chest hair. Everything just lingers on them, on their bodies, on their droopy eyes and on their tongues. They're hanging on fewer hours of rest than they likely need, but they're living so fully that these things don't matter. These young men from Orange County, Calif., aren't interested in distressed feelings or cluttering emotions, just in the release of all the invisible hands weighing them down like metal ore. They are interested in getting out there with the trade winds and all of the good things in life that are free and there for the picking - lengthy conversations, hugs and kisses, fat blue skies and endless wonder. They make a grand party of kicking their feet up and reaching for something that's been cooling on ice for a good couple of hours. Things couldn't really be any better, or so we're led to believe as they tender some shambling hollow-bodied guitar lines, and lead singer David Dennis howls out his words as if they were intended to be the first impressions for women he'd like to impress in a meaningful way, not just to get flirty with. It's kind of like the way Springsteen would sing if he were trying to get a wife - lines like "Tired of always trying to keep my fingers crossed," from "Chained To Reason," lines about the chase and the unsettling race to be successful, popular, older and ready for the hits and the black eyes to establish a mood. There's this calm and dreamy feeling that any troubles that might be out there, existing and exerting their will, will blow over like a freak afternoon shower, turning a day into a night and then back into a day with a blinking's quickness. Dennis mentions such things as the breezes and some mysterious echo on songs that bear the words in their titles and they form these lilting and often breathtaking moments of drifting and lolling, where it's okay to just apply some sunblock, slide the shades into place, lean back and just fall asleep. He sings, "Everybody's talking about the echo, hanging from the crowded room/I don't see the sunshine waiting for the lazy day," and he's already there, half caring about anything that's wrong and half oblivious to it. We take up the cause and just drift along with them. We're leaving it all behind.
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