Words by Sean Moeller, Illustration by Johnnie Cluney, Recording engineered by Grant Johnson at Good Danny's, Austin, Texas
The problem with most days is that they don't feel cosmic enough. There's never enough enormity or mystery to them. Typically, we just wake up and the day's lying there on the porch like an already exhausted pile of hours, skin and sighs, kicking the newspaper under the bushes just for something to occupy its time until it's claimed and probably cursed after a short amount of time. They know that it's no way to live and yet they have no choice, coming off the old conveyor belt, made of the same materials and smelling like the same dull heat that all the others have come with. They are the common denominator days and they're a dime a dozen. The ones that really stand out are the ones that do something, that move us in a way that makes us consider for a second that they're not real, that none of this could possibly be real.
It sounds as if those are the kinds of days that Vinyl Williams is describing in their songs. They are building huge, peeling swirls of sound and of a mystique that will make you really grasp how unending the sky is, rather than just looking at it like it's nothing more than a canopy, something that has a top side, something that doesn't just keep eluding a feel, squirming away, making your eyes bulge and head hurt. The work of Lionel Williams and the rest of his Los Angeles-based band is carried by this sensation that we have no way of steering any of this. We're just going to keep getting shaken until we fall right off the edge, but luckily for us, into a hot tub that we just didn't see - positioned perfectly and waiting for us all along. The drop will be frightening, but the landing will be pleasant and we'll bring all of that wondrous anxiety down into the bubble-jetted waters with us.