Words by Sean Moeller, Illustration by Johnnie Cluney, Sound engineering by Patrick Stolley
Apparently it's that obvious. We all want the same thing, say The Peekers. It's all over our sticky faces, written in the pupils, the pores and the lines like some permanent expression of guilty insouciance and who's really going to argue about any of the round robin accusations? The shoe fits as we're either lovelorn or we're not, plain and simply woven. Just a few minutes ago, there was Robert Smith and his Cure boys on the television, in a repeat performance of a The Tonight Show episode, proving that living the love hunt is not only a profitable undertaking, but one that can string a person along endlessly into middle age and further.
Smith was there in his lipstick and squirrel nest hair singing about some day - some day infinitely away when there could be a finite resolution - when a girl met the perfect boy for whom all of those dreams of four-tiered wedding cakes and explosions of flowers would have been meant. Or, of lesser poetic effect, but of a far more interesting sentiment, the boy who will smile about her when she's not around. This is Peekers territory - bonus hugs, sneaked kisses, breakfasts (more than cold cereal and lukewarm coffee), feeling like everything's made out of wings and peppermints. There was an announcement in the local newspaper two days ago of two people who were grandparents many times over, deciding that getting married even though they were well into their 80s was the best possible idea, a way to show that the chase of love doesn't slow down for wrinkles or impotence. Love made them do it. It's not only about sex and the touching and the humping, but more that intangible sensation that trips us up and turns us all into foolish dribbles of people - the walking zombies of the lovepacalypse. The six-piece band from Shreveport, Louisiana, are the six horsemen of the lovepacalypse, banding together in tight harmonies to send alabaster chills into the air, which could have easily come from the tombs of Denny Doherty, Cass Eliot and John Phillips and had the gracious blessing of the sweet-faced Michelle Phillips.
The songs that fill the upcoming Life In The Air - an album whose title was drawn from their own sprinkly-sparkly line, "Life in the air is just like the ocean/Look at the lights/They don't know that they're glowin'" - are not boxes of melty chocolates or blushing brides, but more so palavers of intelligent desire, or the noble seek-and-hold-onto intuition that there's no getting away from. Brittney Maddox, amongst a twisting smokestack of assisting voices, informs about her desire to gather all of the various pieces of love that she can possibly find and stow them wherever she can where they will be kept out of harm's way - as she pointedly notes, out of the way of the trampling feet. And it's made perfectly clear that there is no fill-to line. There's always room for more love because its value is not elastic. This feels about right, this reverence and this greedy stockpiling of something better than anything the Franklin fucking Mint could produce. Fort Knox, according to Maddox and Co., should be loaded up with passion fruits, matters of the heart and these bullions of amour, all sealed with a kiss.
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