Pepper Rabbit: "Rose Mary Stretch"

Perhaps no adjective in the musical lexicon has traveled farther from its original meaning than “psychedelic,” whose iterations today—despite four decades of distance from the heyday of the genre’s foremost practitioners—are perplexingly many. A 21st century band might be described as such because it sounds weird and expansive on record, because a lead singer mentions drugs in an interview, or because it uses three colors of lights at shows; in short, the term has been caricatured, cheapened, and beaten to a commercial pulp because the Grateful Dead once made cash cows out of flower children. So when an indie label describes one of its bands as “mind-expanding pop,” and that same band names its sophomore LP Red Velvet Snow Ball (holy synesthesia) and chooses cover artwork approximating a cartoon sorbet nightmare, there’s so little hope for their sound being justifiably psychedelic that it’s a real treat and a weird trip indeed when it actually is.

The duo in question is Pepper Rabbit, who hail from Los Angeles by way of New Orleans and excel in concise, experimental power pop. Their first coup is “Rose Mary Stretch,” an understated gem whose 3/4 time signature commences with the staggering drums of skinsman Luc Laurent, both irresolute and hyper with a flange effect. As Laurent’s percussion develops loosely and busily with distant handclaps, interjectory tom-toms and skittish marching-band fills, a metronomic acoustic guitar fosters a sonic dichotomy fitting of singer Xander Singh’s lyrics. With alluringly coy phrasing, Singh describes the angst of outworn stays, of wanting to leave home but having nowhere in particular to go. “You’ll never see my face again after tonight,” he bluffs boastfully as antsy snares accelerate in place and bass triplets hold the song to pace.

Then comes the refrain, a soaring hurrah constructed like a moment too spontaneous to last thanks to an abrupt three-measure trick and Singh’s hastily-sketched, unrhyming words. Here and only here does the rhythm section settle into a sturdy, waltzing beat, joined by shimmering keys and harmonies in equally steady time; it’s almost as if the various instruments, childishly fickle and fighting for attention elsewhere in the song, assented to the common groove for the good of a catchy chorus. Singh, as if running from everything he knows, sounds appropriately out of breath.

“Stretch” is thus a rare marriage of sound with sense. One second the song shouts its impatient chorus—heart in throat and thrusting forth, a real Springsteen chug—and the next it stalls in quiet reflection during a soothing instrumental break. Its indecision pumps best through headphones, and announces in alternate wisps of noise and nuance the arrival of a band with acumen enough to understand that a psychedelic song is one whose sound matches the feeling it’s meant to evoke.

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