Sea of Cars are a Chicago band that winds in and out of existence as the dictates of life permit. Withered Trees is their debut LP, an anthology of arduous observations, dissociative distortion sheathed riffs, lashing post-hardcore groove punch-outs, and vocals that range from skramz-skimmer shouts to drowsy dispatches from guarded nests of depression. The group isn't very active... until they are. They burst and wither like the blossoms of spring and the abscission release of trees. They bear fruit when the season is right and then collapse back into the earth without leaving so much as a headstone to mark their passing. It's a ritual manifestation that faultlessly echoes their style of emo, a melancholic daydream that coasts across sidewalks and interchanges of empty streets like a smoldering parade float, a cursed crucible of joy that survived a malicious act of arson and now roams urban corridors of its own accord, a sodden ashen scar left by some decimated yearning that has taken on an animate life of its own. A drifting omen of kurai (暗い) that is both stirred by an internal observance of wakefulness that pulls it forward by the skin of its nose and against the tide and invisible burden of inertia which simultaneously plunges it into the wallow and slum of despondency. The future divides from our current path like branches sprouting from the trunk of a tree, allowing us to gasp at the idyllic mists of passing clouds while grave dirt collects around our chucks. I plan to go for a walk later with Withered Trees in my ears. Schlepping up Montrose Avenue to pass the time while breathing in the vibrance of the day, pulling as much of it into my lungs as possible before nightfall cools my ambition. Before the shadows become so long that they blot out the sun and the dark reveals the glow and smoldering dread that wafts from my shoulders, the true source and motivation of my aimless stumble.
