Words by Sean Moeller, Illustration by Johnnie Cluney, Recording engineered by Mike Gentry
You're either being brought down or you're being spoiled, when it comes to the standard operating procedure of an Elim Bolt song. You're either a pawn getting knocked around, or you're higher than a kite. One could even lead into the other, bleeding seamlessly from this side to that, covering it all before crashing right back down to normal, sustainable levels.
The moods that this Charleston, South Carolina, band cast are ones that you'd find infecting folks on lazy, hot summer days and when the bottles are starting to get a little more hollow than you'd like them to be. These people are stricken by something like a lack of ambition, but it goes deeper than that. They're tired. They just want to lie around. They'd like to call out for their drugs from that position, in an exasperated and slightly maniacal way.
Everything's gotten screwed up a little and lead singer Johnnie Matthews takes us into the kitchen, with all the cats. He takes us into all of these drowsy corners, where we're bound to bump into some curious people and even more curious puddles of emotional residue, glomming to the floorboards and ceiling fans like taffy and spiderwebs. The streetlights are glowing with a peculiar radiance, swinging dangerously and making everyone feel a little on edge. Matthews sings with a bit of Win Butler in him, giving that jittery life to these tales of sinking suspicions and dampened expectations.
Elim Bolt Official Site