The ethereal sigh of The House Flies’ new single, “She Hums Mozart,” seems to weave spider webs between reality and a windswept dreamscape where notes from a forgotten opera drip like thick, candle wax off celestial bodies. Alex Riggen’s voice haunts this track with the ghostly precision of a misty figure wandering through an ancient hall; all while dream-laden guitars erupt quietly into frenzies only to descend into melancholic whispers that seem stolen straight from the lips of siren calls lost at sea.
Here, amid shoegaze swirls and gothic whispers, you find yourself abducted by sound waves surfacing suddenly out of the dark post-punk waters. It is as if every string plucked sends ripples through time itself—back when Mozart reigned supreme—for here his spirit gets trapped under layers of grunge distortions orchestrated by Nick Pompou’s thumping drum beats that resurrect old gods long thought asleep. Ozzie Woods’s bass lines are not merely played but seemingly dropped from great heights onto unsuspecting symphonists below.
In “She Hums Mozart,” one swims through shivering reverberations—a sonic drowning clothed in airy veils; every note folds upon itself becoming echo devoid of origin yet full with intent; forever stretched on a timeline lacking finitude or margin. There exists within these bounds no clear delineation between waking life and nocturnal fantasy—even absence has substance as you wade further into their densely packed fever-dream forestry.
Yet it beckons—the promise whispered subtly atop fog-strewn landscapes carved meticulously over previous work such as ‘Glimmer’. The project promises more: enticing us forward towards impending edifices named “Mannequin Deposit”. Here they stand—musicians cast against their own looming creations—an ensemble clad in echoes assuming shapes before dissipating fully upon audience gasps.
With “She Hums Mozart,” The House Flies offer up throbs and thrashes structured deceptively simple while daring listeners to unravel complex melodies disguised beneath intentional hauntological static—a beautiful séance spun cunningly around delicate shadow play meant for pondering long after final notes diminish gently like October dusk silently whispering over desolate moorlands.
Simple conclusion? This musical phantasm deserves your ears—and perhaps even parts unknown.
