Words by Sean Moeller, Illustration by Johnnie Cluney, Recording engineered by Mike Gentry
The sun's setting and the air temperature is falling quickly as every Alameda song begins to take hold. These are the dusks that feel as if they're just the starts to something else that's unspoken and squirmy. The Portland, Oregon, group of five casts a figure that makes you feel as if you've got something breathing heavily down your neck, but even when you stop what you're doing as abruptly as you can and whip around to look and see what it might be, you find nothing. You're convinced that you're not imagining anything though. You know that you're not the only one or the only thing there. Your skin itches with nervous energy and you're positive that something's going to approach before the night's completed itself. You're just not at all sure what's going to reveal itself and you sense that you have every reason to be as nervous as you are.
Alameda lead singer Stirling Myles sings, "We both know, what's scratching at your door," and even if that were so, we still might not know what that thing that's scratching is going to appear as. It could be anything and that's what has us most frightened. The good thing is that it sounds like we're there, behind that locked door, with someone else we can talk to, someone who might understand the circumstances and help us through, as the hours get heavy and as the winds kick up and start rattling the walls. These nights that Myles sings about scratch down those walls and they rustle at the end of the bed, down by your feet, keeping you uneasy and worried that, at any minute, whatever's been lurking is coming to call.