It's not a recommended endeavor - extensive staring directly into a scorching, yellow-hot sun - or is it? Could it actually be a stimulus for such sonic creative matters that take a mind into a certain cache that's a tantalizing blend of make believe and extravagant hallucination? Hours and hours of just swooning into the deep, light pits of eyes of that one lone sun could bring forth some of the strongest reactions to the concrete details and the pre-fab expectations and cardboard people who insist upon their validity and their tangible worth.
Arizona band Golden Boots spend an extraordinary amount of their time looking northward into that dry, dusty orb of heat and mocha-to-cocoa tan fame, contemplating the small, medium and bigger pictures. The research, which comes along with the white spots burned into their own eyes for what could be weeks, yields psychedelic revelations about the body and the soul that still don't do anything to ease the fears of impermanence or of discontentment. The psychedelia meshes with an earthy sense of comprehension that light fades into the dark that then fades in reverse, an entire circle of unstoppable rotation and renewal. It's a condition that can be looked at with excitement, darkness or with a form of melancholic acceptance. It's the latter that Golden Boots takes more often than not, with the songs of Dimitri Manos and Ryen Eggleston, skittering into ears like the Northern Lights mellowed out and smoking plenty of mystifying weed of their own.
The music on Burning Brain, Coyote Deathbed Surprise and the forthcoming Winter of Our Discotheque (all Park the Van Records joints) gives off an interesting vibrancy that suggests that there's a phantom making that flag out there on the flagpole beat around in the night, not the wind, as convention would have up logically believe. It's as if there's a vacancy in the lives and it's plugged up with some unseen puppeteer or just a ghost that's more than a muse - more like a lighthouse or a bushy-assed-bearded grandfather figure who people only see as a loutish drunkard, but who in actuality is an oracle with most of the answers. They channel Alex P. Keaton on one occasion and the Golden Boots tap into a grounded but spaced out (in a very Western, freak-folk-Nashville way) image of dream sequences on never-ending repeat and the warped collages of traveling through a subconscious without a Sherpa or a detailed map for guidance.
It all feels as if it's under a chilled influence, where that being affected and twisted is just borderline so. They look through a phone book yellow pages at one point, in a phone booth, and they seem to just be flipping through at random, on a country bat high and Manos sings, "I found God/He's listed under magician," and then doot, doot, doots his way into the fuzzed out wacky, BBQ dance vibe. They seem to find different gods and the big G maybe even out there in the oddest of places and it seems that even minus the religious underbelly of it all that they're here to tell us all about these findings - all of the places where the spirits roam. They're all over the place. We're all being sandwiched by them as sure as we're sitting here discussing them. It's sung, "I've seen the desert come and go before my eyes," and that's really not all. There's stuff out there that not all eyes and radar detect. We have the Golden Boots for those very delicate needs.
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