Money For My Teeth
Significantly less pressed for time today, dudes and dudettes. Stress levels are normal. Hydration is key to surviving this week, although we find ourselves a bit more able to peel ourselves off the leather office chair which suggests to us that the weather may well be on the verge to returning to normal/crappy levels. Which suits us fine. Sleeping is an issue at the best of times, with a head full of dates, deadlines, to-do’s and imagining what sort of political shit-show will ensue in the next 4-to-5 years. Although we are finding that reinstating our start-of-the-year policy of not drinking (alcohol, we need water to live you see) during the week is now paying dividends. We’re able to concentrate on the aforementioned a lot more, and probably more importantly we’re happy to say that the latent anger and indeed our recent tendency to be quick to just that has recently subsided. To put that in context, we’re less into verbally bollocking people beyond what is objectively and reasonably necessary, and resorting more to just talking to ourselves again. We suppose that is what constitutes normality as far as we are concerned. This fantastic debut effort from Money For My Teeth is certainly reinforcing all of these sentiments, as we find ourselves adhesive to the newcomer’s personal blend of psychedelic indie singer-songwriteriness. The rather recent discovery was made via a recommendation made to us several weeks ago – at which point, as you might know, we were left holding our bits/bobs a bit as far as finally launching this site was concerned – and we guess at this point the only negative here is that we didn’t get around to clapping our earlobes on this sooner. Nationality-wise, we’re dealing with a British/American type, which is a great nationality indeed to have. There is also a claim on social media that Money For My Teeth is of the male disposition. Beyond that, we know zip that can be divulged without disturbing the confidences that have been placed upon us. Music-wise, we’re getting The Beatles on one songwriting hand, The Pixies in another labelled chorus, and on a third limb that is customarily present with these sorts of things (we’re trying to draw a comparison with a third-eye, but clearly sucking at that) there’s a mass of Tame Impala. Dig in.