In the shadowed alcove of today’s musical bazaar, where neon echoes pirouette with soporific reluctance, emerges “I Want Everything” – a phantasmagorical mosaic from Pork Pie that distills the wistfulness of an Elysian bygone era through a prism of anarchic dance-floor defiance. With Shane Brett’s drums raining down like cosmic anvils against Michael Laverty’s bass-lines – serpentine rivers carving valleys into virgin planets – this osmotic tapestry unfurls like fever dreams in an opium den.
Amidst this genesis springs forth Stafford, alchemist and siren both; his vocal cords spun from gossamer spider webs woven tightly around our collective longing. His literary wand taps upon piano keys morphing pain to solace while his alto sax exhales lost love letters found in attic chests. Peter Laverty on lead guitar ignites comet tails that lick at heaven’s door—every riff a Pollock painting mid-stratospection.
“I Want Everything” catapults you into kaleidoscopic realms—a bacchanalian marriage between 60s psychedelia and modern tempestuous groove—its DNA redolent with garage rock sweat and indie effervescence crystallized under Dundalk’s Lockup watchful gaze: Pete Rust the conjurer; Fergal Davis the enchanter. Each note is a testament to their deft craftsmanship as sonic tailors who snip away till nothing but raw ethereal emotion remains.
Pork Pie dares us—with audacity verging on lunacy—to sip from their chalice laden with liquid auroras in auditoriums where memories cavort untamed alongside pulsating cadences. Though birthed as progeny of “Pterodactyl,” this latest offering is no mere fledgling—it surges forth emblazoned with plumes iridescent enough to blind Zeus himself.
Ah! But fear not: for amidst such celestial braggadocio lies poignant humanity within every harmonic turn—an odyssey sailing agitated ocean-waves inside our marrow—the tangible ache of desire singing its universality straight through skin and soul alike… This is music that doesn’t simply demand your attention; it seizes it voraciously like Prometheus gripping fire—a decadent uproar meant not just for cognoscenti ears but any being dared dream beyond mundane finitude.
“I Want Everything,” whispers golden-leafed infinity ascending—from deep-rooted nostalgia erupts esoteric present dancing furiously towards future crescendo yet unwritten—for Pork Pie hath sculptured sound into radiant rebellion befitting gods amid mortals.
