Twisted Teens have always been a hard band to pin down, but never more so than on Florida Water Blues. They ring of peak Parquet Courts submerged in Deep-South algae and the smooth whine of Ramon “RJ” Santos’ console steel, but their affinity for braiding absurd specifics with gut-punch aphorisms reeks of David Berman. Sometimes Caspian “CPN” Hollywell croons with Dylanian emotion over 2020s alt-country guitar, and sometimes their drum machine sounds possessed by Big Black-era Steve Albini. The album opens with what feels like the Platonic ideal of a Twisted Teens song—a ripping head-bopper with country twang—and it ends with what is arguably its inverse: three minutes of a bittersweet yet earnest acoustic ballad, followed by two minutes of utterly amelodic, experimental noise.
A Philosophy of Contradiction
The band’s central philosophy is one of contradiction. As CPN noted, “You got to be The Fool and you got to be The Hermit at the same time.” This binary opposition is a driving force throughout Florida Water Blues, where mundane, aggressive outbursts live alongside mystical, world-weary observations. RJ’s console steel perpetually balloons up and down, all smooth twang and keening wails beneath CPN’s signature idiosyncratic growl. As CPN sings, “Opposites create one another.”
The Comedown After the High
Blame the Clown, which arrived just six months ago, was breathless with raucous power-pop anthems and pure, unstoppable energy. By contrast, Florida Water Blues is the band’s “blue” album: the roiling, churning comedown after a manic high. While it is the less immediate of the two records, it offers a deeper, more atmospheric exploration of the band’s sonic landscape. The album is populated by a cast of characters, ranging from down-on-their-luck figures to cruel politicians, all set against the backdrop of a Deep South that feels like a character in its own right.
The Southern Gothic Landscape
The Deep South is brought to life in tracks like “Swamp” and “Florida Water Blues.” Both songs boast evocative, visceral imagery that captures the humidity and fatalism of the region. “Swamp” is soaked in decomposition and the mire of the bayou, while “Florida Water Blues” leans into the mystical properties of the titular perfume. The instrumentation on the album is equally intentional; the sliding of the steel on “Hand Me a Cigarette” injects a profound melancholy, while the structural shifts in “Guided Thunder” demonstrate a band willing to use form to extend their narrative content.
A Sunset Descent
The album’s closer, “Sun Go Down,” serves as a masterclass in atmospheric songwriting. Replacing their usual sharp-edged punk inflections with warm acoustics and harmonies provided by Darcey Blye, the track is a sunset song in every sense. Yet, it avoids a simple resolution, ending instead with a harrowing, experimental soundscape that suggests the breath before morning arrives. If Blame the Clown was a bright and garish mid-day, Florida Water Blues is the descent from sunset into the blue night—two sides of the same gleaming coin.
