Knock-Knock. Who’s there?
The best kept secret in music today that is known as Channel Lounge, that’s who!
You don’t have to be a meteorologist reading the Doppler Radar System to see that this band is taking the scene by storm.
They are acting as the midwife to the birth of a whole new sound that’s gonna shake things up like its an Etch-a-Sketch being erased and like an M Night Shamalon plot twist, no one saw it coming.
Marconi may have been the first to record sound. But CL was the first to do it right with their debut album which is the Sgt Pepper of its day.
In an industry where everyone is satisfied trying to reinvent the wheel, they dare to be the first to invent the propeller and wings.
Most new bands’ relevance expires quicker than a carton of milk but these guys will be around long enough to see the stars in the night sky burn out.
And they are instant contenders to become music legends that will not be forgotten cuz they’re signing their names in the rock n roll history books with pens not pencils.
CL’s atmospherically hypnotic lyrics have more punchlines than a Pacquiao stick figure, their defiantly raw guitar snarls have more hooks than a ship full of amputated pirates, and their strikingly fresh musical vulnerability is more groundbreaking than a jackhammer drilling during the tectonic tremors of a scale 5 earthquake.
Lyricist and lead singer, Josh Toney’s frenetic onslaught of careful articulation is drenched in a velocity that’s often reserved for a cartoon coyote with an Acme firecracker strapped to his back, rocket skating off a cliff, before falling down into a mushroom shaped poof cloud of dust, then waddling off like an accordion with piano keys for teeth.
While James Hale thunderously thuds and pounds powerhouse populated percussions thumping authoritatively with funky precision on an unconventional wooden crate, or as fans call it, the “Amish Beat Box.”
Toney’s meticulously crafted, sharply written lyrics echo effortless mastery, sparkling charmingly cheeky underdog charisma in a plaintiff breeze and metallic husky gruff tenor thrillingly intact.
And he spits hot fire like the exhaust pipes of the Bat Mobile, like the scaled lips of Calisse’s Dragons on Game Of Thrones, like Scorpion’s fatality after a flawless victory.
If silence was diabetes, CL’s abrasive hiccup riff swagger guitar, clanging chunky, upbeat melodic blooms and thorny swerving leads would be the hypodermic needle injecting listeners’ ears with aggressive yet distinctively melodic insulin.
