Seek Magic. Really? That sounds like the album title for a group of yoga instructors from Topanga Canyon unveiling their latest opus involving theremin, timpani, and really sweet vibes, bro. But it’s perversely appropriate. Memory Tapes’ implicit intent is to mine magic from the mundane, mixing sounds you faintly remember from faded childhood nostalgia with the chill-out meme that washed over the blogs this summer.
The Wire branded Pocahaunted and a batch of esoteric bands I’ve never heard of as hypnagogic pop–a term too pretentious for even me to use. Yet it’s perhaps most fitting for Dayve Hawk, whose music occupies a bleary and beatific space between sleep and sentience. Or maybe the fitful insomniac sleeplessness that resembles mild psychedelia, when your mind stops thinking and operates strictly off instinct.
In his Pitchfork review, Ian Cohen scrutinizes the details and contextualizes the band in a way that would take two days for me to properly assess. And even then, I wouldn’t draw connections between Kanye, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Daft Punk. Well played. I’m not sure how Hawk can replicate this–this sounds like the dying embers of summer, a drained moat of squandered time, lost love, and few regrets. Magic. Ok, fine.