CoConuts, Coconuts

Hallie Newton

CoConuts, Coconuts [No Quarter]

CoConuts’ self-titled album is 35 minutes that make you want to cut yourself and then make out. It's only five songs, each standing independently of the next in a haunted pop atmosphere, kind of like living in the artwork of an R.L. Stine book cover.

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It opens with hotly satanic chanting that ushers in hypnotic drums that throb through the whole record. Meanwhile, a piercing guitar offers space to the cavernous tunes, regularly unfastening itself from the rest of the music and screeching upward in contrast to the depth of the guttural low-noted reverberations. Because they only flirt with drone music but ultimately stick to conventional songs that have a bit of melody, the band skirts Sunn O))) territory and floats into tracks like “When She Smiles”, with lyrics about a girl. Guys love this song. They think it’s deep because the rest of the album is so drugged, or maybe it’s the same way certain guys like Cat Stevens. I don't know.

CoConuts seem to be scraping at the surface of nightmarish notions, but their morose sounds don’t send you into a k-hole. Rather, it carries you into a Lynch-esque waiting room of echoes and eerie resonance. Without straying from the Goth Australian HTRK thing these guy’s are vibing on, they manage to braid together a murky sea of demonic and divine into a sound that is intensely their own. I cannot wait to see them live.

 
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