By Lisa Marklinger
Sunlit and glazy indie-electro-pop, bubbling with a razzy, mouth-filling micro-froth. A quagmire, perhaps, Van Damsel presents their debut LP, Van Damsel, full of wiggles and sniggers primed on reflective tranquillity. Perpendicular in its parallels, lax as an intense mineral bath, yet explosive like being tickled by fireworks, the jams are snappishly sweet, the hooks smartly sticky, and harmonics tightly knotted. Literally. Van Damsel fucks the fuck out of finicky forced fun, flips you over and heaves you into a furious, fevered, naked, pancake breakfast dance party in a government-subsidized cafeteria with cinnamon buns to die for. Of course, this sounds kind of preposterous. There’s an outside chance that what you just read might look like unabridged jibber-jabber, but what else can a person say when an album sounds like the memory of a spectacular feeling and you didn’t even need to snort a bunch of blow to get there?
Lowering the volume on this (while that’s never really an option, ever) would be a forfeiture, both for the senses and the perceptions, as the crescendos ascend; the cadences fuss happily into vast, wide open spaces; escaping the drudgery and drifting on, to the next dimension.Van Damsel