Engorged in rhetoric, we decide, in our lives, to inflate with each passing steps into the future-present. A soothing and sandy walk, we delude in this vision of perfect improprieties, where we assume acceptance and justification. A matrix of sight, covered in a light darkness, masquerading in assumptions and ignorance.
But it’s not a bad nor good thing. It’s just life, in this universe, in this slice of dimension, and what we know as reality.
Taken off the debut full-length ‘Surrogate’ (out now), Fake Fever tries to find its place in the venn diagram of damaged nostalgic vapor-wave hooks and glitched out LA Beat scene experimentation. Dream pop fair, it negotiates as much as around the Cape of Good Hope, where emotions are baked in the sun, of our understandings.
Ignorance can be bliss. ‘Dirty Plastic’ might tell you otherwise.
Word, Fake Fever. Word.