Harper Lee wrote that it is a sin to kill a mockingbird because of its inherent innocence. To snuff out a mockingbird is to silence a creature whose only earthly desire is to sing. Fair enough. But what about getting one drunk? Would it be wicked or winsome to party with a mockingbird? Is a mockingbird a shy drunk, or a surly one? After pounding un par rounds of Patrón, is a mockingbird going to drop the singing bit and start roasting my ass like a little feathery Triumph the Insult Comic Dog (Hey, where did he get that cigar?) Of course, none of these pressing moral quandaries are answered on Tequila Mockingbird's LP,
You Always Felt Lost. Taking their name, I presume, from the 1977 album by the late jazz pianist and legend, Ramsey Lewis, the Lansing-based group generally runs the exposed raw nerves of mid-'00s post-hardcore through the pasta-roller of 5th-wave emo, cranking out kinky, rough-grain, and discernibly heavy guitar-pop, which translates abstract caterwauls of rebellion into plainly personal insights that peer down the narrow halls of depression, loss, and a diminishing sense of purpose, often name-checking peers and guiding confidants such as Hot Mulligan and Michael Cera Palin in their song titles and lyrics, and drawing direct influence from them in constructing their sound. The lyrical delivery of vocalist Joseph adds that extra density of circuitry and connectivity that makes the sensibilities of this passionate kinetic ordinance of sound combust and resolve like a mile-long string of firecrackers- pain and perseverance mixing in a smear of splattering, effusive elocution that brings the strength of a wild cataract to a single shuddering tear.
You Always Felt Lost is a sonar beacon to locate the like-minded and lonely in the depths of the perpetual winter of stifled sentimental solidarity. Now if only they could tell me whether or not God will condemn me for getting his favorite flighted crooners plastered, then they'll have basically provided me with all the answers I need in this life and beyond.
