the year in music: Bromst

Dan Deacon Bromst

I never got Dan Deacon before. I couldn’t get past the Woody Woodpecker samples, the tingy midi-controlling, the mind-numbing speed and cracked out joy of his earlier works. “But ‘Wham City’ is great, Chris, you really need to hear that one!” “No, you need to see him live!” “No, really, Chris, you have to throw it on a party to get it, any place with lots of people.”

I’d only ever listened to him alone. I had never listened to Dan Deacon with other people.

Devin bought Bromst during Spring Break, the week it came out. I had heard it prior, and found myself oddly moved by it. From an objective musical perspective, I could understand the dynamics of what he was doing, the nuance in his orchestration (now with live instrumentation), the creative shifts in mood he had begun experimenting with on this record. In particular, “Wet Wings” was truly something to behold.

Devin intended to just drive me back to my house. We’d just shared a beer and a half at his place in Northeast, and spent the time discussing our futures, the nature of artists in society, our fears, our doubts, as well as our hopes. The album played, and we just kept driving. We had reached my neighborhood—“eh, keep going, I got time,” I said.

We detoured through suburbia, during the first few tracks of Bromst, continually getting sidetracked, always saying I’d be back in a little bit. Hills rose and fell, and I knew we were running short on time, but it certainly didn’t register. As far as time was concerned, we were exploring our pasts, the endless expanses we had grown up in, and out of.

We said nothing. We drove up a hill. He put the car in neutral. We said nothing. He took his foot off the pedals and his hands off the steering wheel. We shook the car forward. As “Snookered” reached its peak, we rode the hill, like a longboard, or a roller coaster. Though there was a brief swell of panic in my stomach, it subsided. I trusted the hill. I trusted this moment. At the bottom of the hill was the single ting of a glockenspiel.

We said nothing. We didn’t have to.

Bromst is a social listening experience, one designed to share and be shared. It will always remind me of this drive, and the joy of just letting go.