Serafina Steer has given us an album for someone who owns a lava lamp, and not as a joke. For someone who wears tie-dye t-shirts and thick hairbands. For someone who wears John Lennon sunglasses inside. Who sits on their bed, staring up at the dreamcatcher that hangs from their ceiling. For someone so high, higher than Hunter S. Thompson, tripping on whatever the fuck they got their hands on. It’s for them. It’s not for someone who likes Cohen or Cave or any sort of story or coherency in their songs. It’s not for anyone that’s sober, really.
It’s strange. Proper strange. It barely gets you off the edge of your seat. Hypnotic in a way, but maybe it’s just boring and describing it as hypnotic is a nice way to pave over the cracks. Listening, I was dumbfounded. Baffled. Speechless. That’s unheard of really. It just lacks coherency, but equally isn’t bonkers enough to convince you that the incoherency is done on purpose. You struggle to find the method in the madness. Haunting violins one minute, a driving rave synth line the next. The extremity of the genre-shifts is too much. I’m confused.
Haiku Review
What is going on?
Is this a Hunter Thompson
novel? I don’t know
Listen to Serafina Steer on Spotify and Apple Music.
