Words by Sean Moeller, Illustration by Johnnie Cluney, Recording engineered by Matt Oliver, Mastered by Sam Patlove
The grandfather clock that's seen better days, ticks steadily over in the corner of the room. It's never moved, not even when vacuuming and it has but one job to do and that's to be reliable. It keeps pace and it keeps time and, on the hour, it stretches itself, letting out an announcement that it's doing what it's supposed to be doing. You can still count on its tempo and its cadence. It's the sound of this clock that cuts through the house when the lights are all turned off, the roar of activity has been leveled and there's nothing more to accomplish between now and sunup.
It's at this time of the night when everything's supposed to be put to rest, tucked into bed - worries and problems, smiles and snickers. It's this time of night when even the lightest of sounds can sound like a thunderbolt and bang you out of that solitude. You just want to lie down. You just want a few hours before those bloodshot eyes have to start seeing things again, before everything has to begin anew or as muddied as it was when you cashed out.
Austin, Texas, band The Weird Weeds ties its sounds and ideas together in ways that make you think you're hearing the lurking and the prowling that's going on when you most expect it, when you've got your guard down just like they knew you'd have your guard down. There's a slinky sneakiness, especially in these instrumental tracks, which border on gloom and a racing heart. You'd like to pick up the baseball bat that rests against your bedpost, pad down the stairs and call out, "Who's there? Just leave us alone. What do you want?" The concern that can be felt in these surging and diminishing emotions staggers and whispers before turning the corner and trying to get in through a side door. The sounds will fade with the approaching light, but they are never gone for long.