Heavy Black Frame


Me: Hey! Psst!

You: What do you want?

Me: Buy the new Tram record! It’s iridescent, man!

You: Oh, I know all about you, Mr. Fancy Critic! You and your stupid bands of the month! No, I’m happy with my record collection just the way it is now.

Me: There must be a miscommunication here. This is Tram’s first recorded output, and already it sounds better and more developed than half of the bands on their own label! And they’re on the same label as fucking Mogwai, that’s got to be saying something!

You: Better than Mogwai? Tell me more, stranger!

Me: Well, I wouldn’t go quite thaaaat far. But, Jesus, Tram is a band that writes songs that feel so organic and so elegant, that it’s less music and more the sound of the heartbeat of your true love as you hold him/her close at night

You: You’re losing me…

Me: (Sigh) Tram’s melancholy is so quietly measured out and restrained that you’re sitting there, staring at your stereo, rejoicing as every single minor chord and whispered word pours out.

You: Better than Smog?

Me: Apples to oranges, pal. Tram have no bitterness at their heart of darkness, only a deep paralyzing sadness. Which is good news for us.

You: What about the songs, man?

Me: Just try the first ten seconds of “Nothing Left To Say,” bucko! This record is like a suicide pact between Angelo Badalamenti, Neil Tennant, and Low. Not a single note is wasted, the atmosphere is thick with painterly washes of sound

You: Jeepers!

Me: Tell me about it! Tram’s mourns the loss of the womb’s security by writing songs to reflect that all-encompassing warmth. If you long for the Red House Painters of Medicine Bottle , I suggest you pick up Heavy Black Frame .

Jetset Records, 67 Vestry St. #5C, New York, NY 10013;

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