Yes, these guys again, what can I say: when I love a band, I love a band.
When I hear wave after wave of guitar distortion, it moves me the same way that 1960s pop productions do, with their walls of sound and overwrought orchestration. It grabs me in the same way as a four-on-the-floor disco barnburner, or a multilayered funk groove, or even a minimalist choral song where voices join and then split and then connect and then become meaningful only when they’re together. These are sounds were texture triumphs over melody, where rushing rivers of noise beautifully obscure my sense of self. They force me out of my own head and out of my own body and let me escape into something that feels bigger than me. That’s why when I listen to the loudest, most feedback-laden punk rock songs I can suddenly breathe, suddenly feel calm.
Hertz is, literally, about escaping, about running away. Amy Taylor’s voice becomes an almost indistinguishable part of the guitar chords in the rhythmic chorus. The guitars and drums become her voice when she screams “take me to the beach.” And suddenly, I’m on vacation.