Words by Sean Moeller, Illustration by Johnnie Cluney, Recording engineered by Matt Oliver, Mastered by Sam Patlove
This is a night that feels like a morning when nothing's been burned off yet. The fog and the mist are still hanging in the air. The sunlight is barely new and is just a hazy version of the hot self that it's going to work into over the next few hours, before the biscuits have settled too far down in the bellies. This is a period of time when eyes are still glassy and syrupy. They're crusted in the corners and the sleep lines are still embedded on the cheeks and arms, as if a body slept on a tiny pile of ropes or shoelaces. This is when arms and legs are tight and cumbersome. It's when we're not at all committed to anything in particular, but poking a head or arm out of the back screen door to check to see what the weather and the temperature were, never fully believing what the weather person told us was going to be the case.
Pandit, or Lance Smith of Lumberton, Texas, makes music that makes us think about a morning that feels like that bloodshot eye of a night when we wanted to sleep but just couldn't. It makes us think that we didn't sleep at all, but we will readily admit that we don't recall seeing any of the red numbers on the alarm clock between 4 am and 6 am, so we must have snared a little. They are songs with heart that remind you of shared sunsets and the brilliance of an untouched and still body of water. Sadly, they also make you think of the note that was left on the pillow, which you rolled over and crunched onto, the one that said it all.