Performing that night at the Old Miami with Sisters of Your Sunshine Vapor and The Philter.
This duo pull off sarcastic satires of hipsterdom with such panache, they drop f*bombs as though they were singing lullabies and rankle up the synth-pop craze with delicate slices of dissonant tones and refreshing dabs of noisy yanks on guitars gear shift. But the Rogue Satellites, with their sequenced beats and measured amount of samples under live guitars, cooling keyboards and sun-glittered chimes.
They might be the F*ckAll punks with shredded denim in the back of your classroom or the gothy kids glowering from the shaded patch of the jungle gym judging all the other conformists playing about with traditional ideas of indie-pop, but then you get close enough to see this affable, humble smile in their sound, a warm inviting charm that wears poetic vitriol and existential edginess so effortlessly.
Those rough skater ballad harking guitars and nasal boy vocals might invite seminal indie-flavors from maybe a Superchunk or an Archers of Loaf, but the keyboards and harmonies could easily jettison this thing into space-rock's airspace, if not for the softening chamber-pop crackle easing in with those tender, wispy girl vocals taking the lead along with the giddier peal of those xylophones.
You'll experience that blend of genres and playfully gnawing vocals on the single below, only to be shifted suddenly towards the end, for a minute-long outtro taking on a spooky, psychedelic folk waltz off and up towards the snarky celestial hang-out of these Other Angels.