Blithely ambling through a morishly juicy wilderness, the swedish duo dance aloft bittersweet nostalgia in this transformative serving of psych-rock.
“Now maybe we could make it if only we were better looking” – says noise orchestrator Emil, turning gleefully to reveal the finished article to frontman Lucas. A little self deprecation feeds the humble, but in this case it starves Killer Cashew of recognition they so rightly deserve.
In a musical landscape teeming with superficiality, these two nutty purveyors of fantasy have cashed-in their disdain for genericism, in favour of a one way ticket to an escapist utopia of bubblegum clouds and blood red strawberry fields. And yet, with all this euphoric imagery laid out on a silver platter, Shit Wine emits tragicomic notes far tarter than its alluring instrumental suggests; a trait typically akin to four scouse lads that happened to take over the music ether. That’s right, the Sgt Peppers reference was no accident, but the use of gritty tape saturation will tell you that.
Sonically, this record is the closest thing to The Beatles without leaning onto the cover band label; and that’s fine, in fact, i’d say it’s as higher praise as any.
The pair don neon military uniforms adorned with ostentatious epaulettes as they embark on an illusory journey across a bleached beach of desiccated coconut. Waves of sugary sweet phase lap onto wet kisses of chorus. The end product is a record soaked in humility. Despite the title, it’s no plonk, nor is it corner-shop swill. A château belair-monage would be a far more appropriate comparison: full bodied and attractively ripe.
As a debut release, the duo have triumphantly blazed a technicolour trail of musical prowess that The Flaming Lips would be proud to put their name to. It’s well documented that Cashews are a natural antidepressant, and these two are a shimmering case in point.