Well… thank you.

Thank you, The Cave Singers. Once again, you’ve made my Grinch heart grow three sizes. I don’t know how one band can make me feel like I’m living in a 1970s Wes Anderson flick, but you do it every single time—washed-out tones, strange pacing, golden light, and that feeling that something meaningful is unfolding whether or not I fully understand it.

I inhaled this band with the Seattle air they came from. Their sound embedded itself into the fog, the cold, and the in-between years I didn’t know how to narrate. It felt like they saw me growing—and somehow grew alongside me. And even though they’ve stayed consistent with that folk-driven, stripped-down soul, it never bores. The guitars hit like a good old-fashioned at the end of a really shitty day of work—earned, grounding, quietly potent.

Banshee opens with the classic Cave Singers vibe: earthy, steady, familiar. And then it happens—electric fuzz kicks in. It pulses through the background like a heartbeat wrapped in static. That kind of grit always gets me. I hear it, and I don’t question it. Like any good fuzzed-out guitar line, it grabs hold—and I’m gone.

If I were a fish, this band would be the worm that finally got me fucking hooked.

So thank you, Cave Singers.
Once again, I’m a cross-eyed, oxygenated water-breather for you.