Mossy’s self-titled EP is a threat whispered with longing – a curse disguised as a platitude. Beneath its shimmering surface something dreaded patiently waits, and though the five tracks never outwardly project evil, they vaguely reek of it, like a corpse just starting to sour.
It’s this interplay between the uttered and the unspoken that gives the piece its power. The subtly sharp edge of EP opener Electric Chair proves transformative, lifting it from a run of the mill slice of synth pop into something endearingly wretched. Waterfall inhabits similar territory, and the Xanax-addled chorus is as moving as it is eerie.
What’s most impressive about Mossy is the fact itnever falls from ethereal to insubstantial. Jamie Timony, the man behind the moniker, has a fine ear for pop hooks, and the rigid, iron ore melodies dotted throughout Shipping Yard are genuinely infectious. Its commercial fare made as non-commercially as possible – a velvet glove cast in iron.
Mossy’s debut effort is pretty and piercing, and every one of its blows finds a new, softer patch of skin to rest on. It wants to hurt you. And before long you’ll realise that’s exactly what you want too.
BY JOSEPH EARP
