By Erik Stefan
One can’t hear the band name Delorean without regressing to mid-80s nostalgia for Mr. Michael J Fox and his mad scientist obsession with time travel.
It’s no surprise that popping on Subiza
When I first listened to Subiza, I was navigating through the bustle of Atlanta’s Hartsfield airport. For my fellow travelers out there, you know the curiosity of the airport’s wandering eyes: Who are you and where are you going? In some instances, these people are time travelling as well. Going home to loved ones where yesteryear has been retained through photographs and digital imagery.
Delorean was a perfect beat to my trip through time to the West Coast; returning to around the same time as when I left. The trancelike blips and skips of Subiza were like the atoms of our passing glances. Everyone’s in such a hurry at the airport. I always try to get there a few hours early for the people gawking opportunities. As a songwriter, I feed my monster through the make-believe agendas and assumptions I assign these people. Nothing is sacred.
The vocals on Subiza are a bit buried in the rhythms, maybe even obscured. It was a mixing decision, and, quite honestly, a good one. I don’t necessarily understand what they’re saying, but I know what they’re saying. And, if I don’t, I have my own interpretation. The rhythms tell the story. Each night has choices, but we’ll get to that later…
Today, I sit in the idle lounge of the auto shop waiting for what will be ultimately an expensive repair. I’ve been cooped up a little too long, and I’m starting to daydream a bit when I decide to take Delorean for a spin.
The immediacy of “Come Wander” makes me antsy. It makes me want to steal a car from the lot, roll down my windows, and bullet down the highway, wandering back to the tricks and up-to-no-good intentions I’ll soon concoct. My favorite music inspires me. It takes me places I wouldn’t dare explore in my own consequential life. Delorean’s music evokes a freeness that has a natural tendency to slash through the lines of accountability.
“Endless Sunset” is a trip between bars when the buzz has crept on, but has not yet exploded into full-tilt revelry. It’s restrained. It comes on then drops off like the first girl or boy you danced with tonight. When I went to Jamaica, they said, “don’t buy the first thing you see.” They were right. You move on quickly to your next partner: “Grow.” It’s nice enough. You could probably bring this one home to Mom and Dad. It’s polite, polished, and could easily find its way on to an episode of the Hills. (Yes, I just referenced the Hills. Don’t judge me.) “Grow” may likely become the one that got away, but the pangs for more make you wonder if twenty years from now you’ll be tired of the same restrained melody.
The sex appeal of “Infinite Desert” sashays into your aural cavity with a Moroccan slither. I envision raucous bodies shimmering across dance floors of underground clubs with boarded and tin-foiled windows barricading the realities of the day. This sensuous apocalypse is brimmed with vampire serpents, whispering “I love you” as their fangs lodge deep. This one will inevitably get you in trouble with its j’oi de vivre. It will be life-affirming. It will break your heart. You’ll ride the rollercoaster into the fire.
Subiza rolls through a bevy of would-be lovers culminating with “Stay Close.” It’s a throw-back to “Grow,” the standard. Something’s different with “Stay Close,” though. It’s got the familiar steady beat of “Infinite Desert” with the awed wonder of “Come Wander.” It may not be safe, but it’s exciting. It feels meaningful…
Eventually, the night ends alone or as one. Today, it doesn’t really matter. I’m still waiting for my car. Still tapping my toes incessantly, while middle-aged America watches Maury Povich around me. I’ve realized as the record hits repeat that it’s as powerful coming down. Car’s fixed. Time to go.
by Gunter Grass. All are welcome.
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