Late Cambrian are what the music industry has been missing since the mid 2000s. With it’s pounding beats and earth moving bass lines Peach hits your ears with perfect harmony; none of the tracks will ever be skip worthy.
You will experience 50 (ish) minutes of excitement, joy, warmth and love. Peach will remind you that music does in fact make the world go round and this record is certainly enough to keep us spinning.
My only quibble is that Late Cambrian didn’t release Peach with a warning that you may never listen to another album ever again.
In a nutshell, Peach is like a perfect cup of tea with a side of exploding popping candy, drawing you in with its gigantic magnetar strength force.
If you don’t already own a copy of Peach, change that now!!
Really, the worst cocktail party question ever - the number-one most excruciating, fun-draining thing that can happy to any casual conversation - is “How did you meet?” Does anyone ever expect an interesting response? For anyone that doesn’t live inside of a romcom, there are a total of five possible answers (at work, at a party, through friends, on the Internet and I can’t even think of one more) and, if the answeree chooses to elaborate, God help her, whatever she says is going to be as sentimental as a Hallmark movie and have all the continuity of a screening of Deep Throat on basic cable. Plus, is it just me, or does anyone really want to tell the story of whatever possessed them to fling off singlehood and shackle themselves to the monotony of convention?
So it is actually amazing how awesome this song is. Like an epistolatory novel set entirely on Twitter, or a sonnet composed solely of words uttered by Real Housewives, the romance origin story carries a serious handicap. (Late Cambrian probably understands this: frontman John Wlaysewski declaration that “I fell in love”, his insistence that “if it could happen to me, it could happen to you” has a tinge of defiant embarrassment, like how one might confess to falling for a shell game or a 419 scam.) But the song overcomes to deliver four minutes of powerpop perfection, complete with catchy riffs and clever rhymes (for instance: “sunlight” / “bugbite”).
Our favorite part is when the vibe suddenly changes to indie-twee mid-song, marking the point where the night before ends and the so-called walk of shame begins: an unexpected and clever genre-shift that underscores how power dynamics change with the sunrise. When morning just happens, it is possible to slip into a Sunday kind of love without any show of desperation. Offering coffee becomes an act of simple hospitality. When Wlaysewski’s frantic host-character felt an obligation to make his place seem at least as cool as whatever other parties his guest would be missing out on, in the morning there’s nowhere left for her to go in all of last night’s makeup other than straight to her exfoliator, so she might as well hang out. This is love at it’s easiest.