Words by Sean Moeller, Illustration by Johnnie Cluney, Recording engineered by Matt Oliver, Mastered by Sam Patlove
Alex Trimble, the lead singer of Two Door Cinema Club, might wake up in the mornings with his fingers crossed, optimistic that today could be that day of fateful returns. It could be one of those days that you just can't believe happened when you get to the end of it. He's forever seeking that mother lode, where the pickaxe is tinging and sparking away on the hard rock, day-after-day, chipping away the worthless rock, until finally the feeling of a strike vibrating up the handle of the pick is different than has ever been felt. It's what kept prospectors in the cold South Dakota and warmer California streams, sifting out the dirt and the gritty sand, for that glistening golden dust, golden speck, golden nugget or boulder, when the West was overrun a hundred-some years ago. Trimble is a writer - and more importantly an optimist - who seems as if he's willing to go along with the belief that there's always a chance that today's the day that everything changes. It could be because of freakish luck or something attributed to fate or faith, but he suspends his doubt and worries and former bad luck and just holds tight for it. The change could come about through a combination of reasonableness and foolishness, the stuff of magic. It could make no sense, and he might be happier for that stroke of goodness coming through for him, through nothing that he can figure aside from an unsolvable cosmic algorithm. So be it.
His band - which also consists of guitarist Sam Halliday and bassist Kevin Baird -- is a momentous blend of youthful optimism, sensible frustration that these ground-breaking, click your heels days are rare and often spaced out wider than the arrival of the next Haley's Comet viewing. It's a kind of music that let's us get to those triggers that we often forget about - the ones that feel as if they're so arbitrary and so fickle. They are filled with an abnormal buoyancy - moments of concern and doubt that are leveraged against some great optimism. Trimble writes of the randomness of nights, the ways that they unfold or bust, shattering or looping the magical mystery, depending on the turns. He writes of those unplanned encounters in a way that makes you yearn to be young again. He gets us to that place that place where we encounter the newness of a person and see it as the most exhilarating possibility imaginable, something we're willing to forsake sleep and sanity for. He sings, "Just keep talking on/Tell me your favorite things/Tell me your favorite things," putting an emphasis on the intellectual fevers that stem from one of those chance encounters with someone you immediately fancy and who you sense feels the exact same way as you do. He goes on singing, "She spoke words that would melt in your hands," and he savors that melting.