There is this recurring dream that I have. At some point in my future, everything I grew up with and everything I know about my past—the places, the memories, the pets, my family, my friends—are replaced with a sprawling empty city, devoid of any life. I drive around at night,
homesick, frantically looking for any sign of my past but can only find an orange glow of city streetlights, and a maze of buildings, concrete, and asphalt—all in decay. It’s taken me years of reliving this dream to finally realize what it was trying to tell me, with the help of Alan Watts: “The past and future are real illusions, that they exist in the present, which is what there is and all there is.”
I started writing music for Lost Hills as a way to set free this illusion of past and future, to let go of the nostalgia of my childhood and release the persistent, crippling anxiety over what is to come. Lured back to the memories of my 1980s youth, Lost Hills is a collection of weird, slow-motion future-retro synthpop saturated with Betamax-modulated, reverb-drenched synths, delay-soaked staccato guitars, obsolete nu-disco grooves, ice particles floating above peaceful harmonies, along with intimate stories of loss, unmanageable fear, and paralyzing regret. A record inspired by the synthpop of the past, and a sentimental dream of synthpop from the future. Lost Hills is depressing music you can dance to.
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