I first heard Peaking Lights on a shopping trip to Love Garden. I was baked and the sounds in the air were dreamy. I asked the guy behind the counter what was playing. He showed me the vibrating cover of 936 and said, It's P-E-A-K, like a trip, not like the place in China.
On the day after the last day of summer classes I drove to Atlanta, and just as I got into the twelve-lane guts of it, ten quick minutes away from the record store, I got stopped dead in the second worst traffic jam of my my life. Two hours later I traded some old records for Lucifer at Criminal Records and a whole bunch of cheap prog rock at Wax n' Facts. That was a few weeks ago. I started writing this review within a day or two, but I ran into a detour and got stuck. I read, "Lucifer nudges their sound forward, but even if it were just a repeat," and I got angry and wrote a rant that I've since deleted. But the point of the rant was basically true: it's voice. That's what I call it when I teach creative writing. Voice. I'm not sure what it's called in music. It's what burns behind your work, and burns cleaner and brighter and hotter over the years, and like no one else's, if you work it. When I listen to all my Peaking Lights' records back to back it's like a movie where this voice evolves out of itself, always purer and more true, and I love their voice.
The vinyl comes with a two-sided glossy poster, and the gooey blue writing on the cover is coated with gloss.