- Welcome to Daytrotter
- Bag Of Burning Bones
- Talking Of Talking To People
- Don’t Let Me Stray
The way that you properly start a Friday night is by mentally preparing your body for the damage that you’re thinking about doing to it over the next two-plus days. It’s gonna be fun, but it might not be pretty. At least, this is the itinerary for anyone between the ages of 19 and 30. It goes without saying that people in that range are fiends for whatever it’s going to take to blow off some steam and not just drool over pretty things at the bars, but to actually try and persuade them home for nightcaps and ugly morning partings. We willingly throw ourselves into the gutter and let our heads get cloudy with substances and escapist fantasies. It’s about all we’re able to do to justify the other days, the other hours that are just barely ours – usually farmed out to the highest or only bidder.
The young men that we get to size up in the songs written and played by the young Atlanta, Georgia, group, Asherel, are tragic and typical. They’re no more tragic than any other man their age. They’d hesitantly cop to being men though. They’d rather behave the way that they always have, for the most part, but then they sit back and think about what that looks like and it gets to them. They take a good, hard look and realize that they’re definitely not boys any longer, but they wonder why they don’t feel any different. This is the chief issue in Asherel storylines and it’s the battle that’s waged again and again. There must be something that can be taken, something that could be signed over or inherited that could begin working to bridge the gap and make all of the monkey business recede some – just not all the way, because where would the fun be in that?
Lead singer Trey Rosenkampff sings about sleeping some things off until the next afternoon and only some of the time would that be considered a waste of daylight. Most of the time here, it’s just necessary. Rosenkampff, guitarist Graham Elder and drummer Christian Ebetino will then muster the energy to throw back the covers, scratch their itchy parts, shuffle into a kitchen with a sink filled with empty cans and a stench and then figure out how they were going to make a new racket later that day – along with who they were going to make it with.