Tour-Split 12'' on Altin Village.
Achtung: Letzte verfügbare Teile!
VAGUE ANGELS: Indie bad-boy? Literary minstrel? The mythology has many
permutations – decide for yourself. Vague Angels is Chris Leo’s current moniker.
Fans of Chris Leo’s former projects (The Lapse, Van Pelt, Native Nod) will recognize his distinct blend of verbosity and musical virtuosity on his new efforts. With
strange lyrical narratives and dense arrangements, Vague Angels sound like the
culmination of a style and sound that he’s been developing for years. Though Chris
dropped off the public radar for nearly five years after Southern‘s release of The
Lapse‘s „Heaven Ain‘t Happenin‘ „ LP in 2000, contrary to popular belief, he was
not sitting idly by the jacuzzi with the gross of Crystal and ho‘s he‘d accumulated
from left over touring booty. In fact, he was busy working on novels and albums in
tandem in the secrecy of Bolivia and Newark, New Jersey. The first novel, „White
Pigeons“, was originally released along with the album „Truth Loved“ serving as
Chapter 7 and performed by the book‘s fictitious band The Breaks, as played by
Vague Angels. Seeing as all people see the same things differently and all things
appear differently when seen at differing distances, the album „Truth Loved“ is
finally set free to be released on its own as its own. Rather than exist as a musical
substory surrounded by a novel, perhaps some will feel it better suited as the premier story with the novel serving as rancid residue around it. Yes, after two stripped
down European and more Statewide tours (including some supporting his brother
Ted Leo) with little but himself and an acoustic guitar, Chris has decided to allow
the songs of „Truth Loved“ some breathing room from the text and stretch out as
wide as they may choose to stretch.
THE GANG have spent the entirety of its five year existence meticulously finetuning a high articulation of hedonism, mastering the unlearned art of cummunicating volumes through word economy and riff repitition, and lauding the embarrassments of regret as rather exotic outposts on both antiquated and yet unchartered
maps. So dedicated to the complete party are they that months and months of all
night practices often lapse between thirty minute shows where they arrive with
broken amps and knock hockey paddles as drum sticks. So committed to crushing
half-steppers that they will well overstep their strides into pits of pride before you
have but a blink to second guess your first nervous unmasking. Originally conceivedin the ironbound section of newark, New Jersey, The Gang now divides it time
between the Jersey shore, the Hamptons, Iceland and Brooklyn and tends to sound
like Bruce Springsteen sans pedestal, the Psychacelic Furs if they weren‘t fey, an
anthemic Can and increasingly, like a sgt. pepper‘s era Beatles if the Beatles really
were fighting for something.
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