Drug Drug

Forget everything you think you know about California’s high desert—all the second-hand tales of psychedelic epiphanies and Gram Parson’s romantic death in some hotel room up here, as if any of it matters. The desperate need to “hit your re-set button” only admits guilt in a true robot masquerading in flesh and blood. Oh, and forget finding yourself… The desert will make you feel more lost than an old sock. As evasive as the true nature of the desert’s grand vacuum may be, there is simply nowhere else a group like Drug could exist. Drug throws any pre-conceived notions of “desert-sound” so far out the window, into that dark part of the dirt road where your eyes play tricks and your mind panics while beckoned further into this hypnogogic paralysis. You may even be initially reluctant to realize that this is the true untouchable sound of the desert, with all of its heat, sandstorms, tweakers, waywards, Walmart-zombies at 3am, the constant battle with oneself. Every song on DRUG’s debut self-titled LP is pure Lynchian cinematic splendor in its own right, each one reading like its own kiss-off to invasive personifications of mediocrity.