“warm water” that you played through a portable speaker in the basket of your two-year-old bicycle, your last summer in montreal. volume turned way up, riding with two of your best friends — to work with the sun rising at your back, coffee in one hand, or to the bar at night, racing to beat the rain. you pretended you were in “now & then,” embodying every cliche: carefree, sun-kissed, singing at the top of your lungs without knowing the words. you played it at the park in the heat, in your stuffy apartment, on your computer at work, in the studio, and in the early morning when the three of you came home, sticky with sweat and laughter, from a night of partying under seventeen moons.
there’s something to be said about the appeal of anonymity. certainly in dance music, mystery has become a bit of a signature in and of itself. masks a la daft punk or zomby, pseudonyms or aliases, burial’s entire persona, the ubiquitous “special guest” slot on every bill. secrets are the new black, so much so that it’s not really a secret anymore. for that reason, i tend to shrug off these kinds of anonymous producers, but every so often comes an artist like pearl.