Words by Sean Moeller, Illustration by Johnnie Cluney, Sound engineering by Mike Gentry
Olivia Rose Muzzy is the girl that you meet your freshman year of college, having long ago reached the point where all of the high school-aged kids you were exposed to in your hometown were uninteresting and just all kinds of blasé. They were the people you still hung around with because you'd always done so and never really considered making a monumental shift in posse. They were the friends you were stuck with and they were the people you didn't care to hang out with on weekends that you were stuck with. It was a city you'd grown exhausted with so you moved away from home, into the dormitory, and into a sea of odd characters who were nothing remotely like your old friends and neighbors. So you arrive there on campus, in a town that perpetually bears a faint cologne smell of spilled beer and throw up, and there are all kinds of alternatives to the folks that you were used to. Rose Muzzy would be one of the free spirited people you'd meet, not know what to make of her initially and then quickly see her as the girl who's interesting when the shit's being shot and when there's a real hankering for getting out there and trying something new. She'd be up for either - staying in or going out and painting the town a messy shade of red and doing it without rhyme, with a hysterical splattering of the paint upon brick and concrete, getting it all over everything. Rose Muzzy makes music that reflects a personality like the one described above, so scattered and perplexing, unpredictably weird, that it's exactly why one keeps on listening - through the difficult terrain and the bumpy ditches, knowing that she's planning to wrapped it all up somehow. It will get to a point where we can step back, look at it without the crossed eyes that it caused and see this mutt of a song that is darling in its own little way. Her music represents the very delicate balance between difficult to understand and what makes anyone feel as if they've been completely immersed in something that they don't know if they'll ever be able to make heads nor tails of. It's got the gristle in it and it's got the stringed flower petals in it as well. It floats and it rubs and it gets you feeling kooky, like you want to walk away, but feel that your feet won't move thanks to the hypnotics going around. It's a dramatic blend of oddity and classicism, the kind that is the result of eclectic tastes and an embracing of awkwardness for the beauty of it.