If Dante had lived in Kentucky and swapped his quill for a Telecaster, “The London Sessions” might have been his “Inferno.” Clyde’s latest EP doesn’t just flirt with themes of life’s messy transitions—it invites them to dinner, burns the roast, and then spends the rest of the evening discussing the futility of trying. Frontman Terry Miller, whose raspy, vulnerable voice plays both sinner and saint, leads his bandmates through the stuff of late-night, existential dread—only with more distortion pedals.
“The Traveller” begins like a road-weary sermon, its jangly guitars and modest beat subtly masking the gravity of life’s inevitable encounter with the void. This isn’t some cheerful “we’re-all-in-this-together” road trip. Nope. This is the lonely midnight highway, where the wheels are spinning and you’re not quite sure if you’ll ever get where you need to be. But that’s the point, right? It’s the journey, the conflict between knowing and never knowing.
Then there’s “The Writer.” Where “The Traveller” looks outward into the foggy future, “The Writer” takes us inward, dragging us into the twisted brain of the fool who can’t escape his own mind. It’s both beautiful and excruciating. Miller’s lyrics dance between reality and performance like a David Lynch character stuck between worlds, dodging the “blinding light” while empires crumble. The tension never fully resolves—how could it? That’s not how life works.
In “The Pilot,” the band ties spiritual searching and the wreckage of love to a melody that feels rugged yet radiant. The chorus sprawls out like an open horizon, yet the further you fly, the more you’re circling a void of unanswered questions. Airplanes crash, hearts break, and there’s no easy lesson at the end.
Finally, “The Poser” freezes you in place, a song for anyone who’s ever been paralyzed by the weight of others’ expectations. It’s not just about indecision—it’s about the terrifying possibility that either choice could be wrong.
Clyde isn’t offering salvation with “The London Sessions”. They’re just holding a cracked mirror up to life, and maybe that’s all we can ask for.
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