Where Tacks, The Boy Disaster calls home, the opportunities to use the heated pads of pointer fingers to trace designs into frosty windows are few and far between. They must use their own breathy fogs to white up the glass and then sketch drawings of bears or worms or write "Honk Your Horn!" backwards, with flakes of light ice falling to the armrest, to get the attention of the drivers of 18-wheelers on the interstate. When the design is completed and left for a few hours - granted the air outside the vehicle stays cold - the layer of frost will creep back and take over, though where the fingers had imprinted, it's more latent, leaving what was there still partially there. Even after the weather gets warmer, there's usually still an impression of that design on the window, smeared into its cleanness.
This Austin foursome gets this process of impressions and cold weather lust whether it knows it or not. On the bottom sides of their hands, the tips of their fingers would be chilly and damp from their exploits. The songs on the band's EP Oh, Beatrice amble as if they were aberrations, destined to haunt like Caspers, friendly and mild of touch. They're indelible and yet delightfully infirm, as if they were made of bubbles and disappearing ink. Evan Jacobs is mystical and gallant with his lyricisms and the music that encompasses them is barefooted and tender like stardust or if you'd prefer, equivalent to the spotting of a doe through a clearing, lapping solitarily at a calm lake. You are taken by its waves and its strong heartbeat, which slings a heavy, dead arm around your shoulders and brings you closer to it. Bottoms up.
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