Growing up in pre-internet small town America-any music that wouldn't normally be heard on the radio was taken as a revelation. A second generation copy of NME's cassette compilation C86 scored from an overseas penpal was treated as some kinda holy grail to a point where there a probably still a couple of 3 and 4 generation dupes of it sitting in boxes stashed in closests, basements and attics around this county and the one north to us. To a brain like mine it was a logical extension/diversion of things that did hit our hamlet's record store who buyer was heavy on the Factory records tip. Somewhere in New York City there's seems to be a warp bubble of that era that the Crystal Stilts live in.
Rainy day sparkles from street lights refractions off heavily misted windows. The guitars have a crystalline jangle that recall the type of chord progressions Johnny Marr nudged a million kids into trying out. A joyous celebration of sunshine wrapped in melancholy feeling like frosting laced with fiberglass blanket. The bass lines change notes when they have to but ride a right spot rumble while a simple percussion snap proves one foot can do a Mo Tucker beat than any drum machine ala Psychocandy. The singing is a disaffected & solemn croon yet unlike many an attempted Ian Curtis spirit raising doesn't sound embarrassed if caught cracking a smile.