Words by Sean Moeller // Illustration by Johnnie Cluney // Sound engineering by Mike Gentry
It's hard to tell if you're the one who's haunted or if Sleepy Sun is haunted when you listen to them in the privacy of a quiet room. It might be a little of both getting at you, eating away on your touchy faculties, sensitizing your ears and making your eyes dart left and right like tigers. The San Francisco band of hippie types and some speakers of fake Soviet accents acts here, in this session, as if it wants you to believe strongly that it's you - you're the one with all of the demonic devices inside your halls and crannies, effectively giving yourself the creeps or whatever the feelings amount to. Your skin is itching crazy and you're getting close to wanting to just jump out of it, as on edge as you're getting to be. The band preys on the parts of another person that believe in the darker drafts that make their ways under the doors and over the thresholds. It preys on the parts of another that want to bark at the yellowed out moon up in an empty sky as well as the bits of another that dream of acting out the restlessness during the night in ways that never register, but are recognized the morning after when there are cockleburs and twigs tucked into their knotty hair and their pant legs are torn from midnight gallivanting.
They're almost the actions of werewolves, but they've got too much melody to chalk it up to that. They've got too much sunny drama in their palms and veins to dismiss anything they do as blind rambling - the acts of mythological creatures of the night, as purely instinctual and animalistic. It's nothing of the sort, but a production of eerie and enchanting spells that are being cast upon our unsuspecting heads, getting us to turn our simple ranges upon their own heads and become more in touch with our spines and where the cobwebs and the frights originate from.
The songs sprinkle down like a soothing acid rain, puddling up all around you, at your feet and just lie there in a kinetic sizzle, reflecting the lights from above, back up, brighter than ever. There's no threat that any of this should be seen as alarming or bad, just the way it's going this day - trippy and weird. It's not a ways off from how the band typically tends to work, just different as it's normally busy incorporating more than its fair share of bleeding solos and psychedelic orgasma into the blasts and waves, sending all of its many volts of energy and shafts of musical ideas through a rotary fan working overtime at cutting the air and anything that comes between it and that air into a million pieces or as many as it can slice in the time given. It's an unleashing of this red avalanche of the whispers of the slightly perturbed ghosts as well as the kisses of the tender voices inside thousands of heads, together for the first time in communion, collaborating on the best way to act out their insecurities and beautiful habits.