There's something almost accidentally modern about the sound of Range Rover, the unpromising band name of three teenagers from San Diego. Built on a bed of beach haze-soaked pulses and topped by vocals heavy on the reverb unit, over coming up for seven minutes it shifts subtly into space beats, and indeed spaced out headspaces, that Arthur Russell would nod knowingly at. Despite that beach haze bit, rather than chillwave's imagining of shapes and mirages in the desert, it sounds like sun rays striking and glistening off the ice, hypnotic in its circular structure and taking care of every last detail, layered with tambourine rhythms and buried distortion.
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