Whether or not the human race really was made to burn like bacon becomes an afterthought; its value as a lyric supersedes any allegiance to verifiable truth.

It a gorgeous delivery of a roller-coaster of a song, where the peaks and valleys are all melody and frets, strings and wood and breath.

Simple, elegant, and a little bit scrappy, with a blues inflection over the top of a fine indie-rock groove.

An incisive eye for getting to the point, as well as some tube-drenched power chords, help The Memoirs to build a modern sound and story that is all their own.

Its a snappy beat and an overdriven vocal that gives hints of a Jack White. This is punk-forward riff rock of the highest order.

This song covers the ground of interpersonal sacrifice, the little things we give away every day for love, or even the chance at love.

Its so open, so spacious, with a voice that feels like it hurts; such raw emotion, wrapped in ghost notes, surrounded by remnant whispers of reverb.

A warm mid-tempo romp with shades of mono synth and a sparse, well-poised melodic narrative.