Published August 10, 2011
What do you do when you want to get stoned and lost on a beach in California in the sixties but you are stuck in Hafnarfjörður? I don’t know, but if the end result is the self-titled album by Spacevestite, I’d seriously consider laying off that shit.
How do we start? Is it the band’s name, with its obvious and laboured hints at deviance? Or could it be their sound, trying to be swirling, psychedelic pop, but with annoying keyboards, Mick Jagger impersonation vocals, and production that makes it sound like a busted fly in a tin can?
Or perhaps it’s the corny and hackneyed ideas of what psychedelia is supposed to be, from their song titles (‘Sexedelic Dance Party’) to their lyrics (“I am stone away from home/when I’m in the twilight stone.” Really? I mean, REALLY?).
Basically this is an album from people who want to be all groovy and sexy, but only learned psychedelia from watching Austin Powers movies. We put Kula Shaker to the sword for crap like this, so I see no reason to stop right now.
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