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If Fellini had made beach movies, Supermajor would have been their elegiac, enchanted house band. “Cemetery Eyes” is an anthem pouring out from and then somehow all around the dashboard of some convertible that went off a too-sharp curve on the Pacific Coast Highway in 1966 and never returned to Earth, picking up alien angel doo-wops and Eno buzzes from the ether and the future along with its irresistible elysian guitar jingle and synth fizz while it was in the air with no interference. “Your Drift Is a Drug” has that motorcycle-kickstart rhythm, recoiling on itself as it chews up distance, wrapped up in sensations torn away from the disappearing landscape. Happier yet still wiser, Supermajor are pop prophets and sibyls who haunt a collective hit parade without ever having had to die, as rock and roll never does, because they know that youth only passes from soul to soul. There is no more radio but there’s still ritual, and Adam Swiderski’s headlining songs are testaments of movie-star confidence and morality-play caution while Brooke Tarnoff’s and Sarah Engelke’s are séances of ’70s arena-diva sorrow and transcendence, “I See You Clearing” a prayer for hearts put back together from each others’ pieces and “Shotgun” the proto-punk hall of fame B-side. Everything converges for “A Little Piece of the Sun,” the kind of half-album-length epic that whole societies of counterculture would collect around. Supermajor makes the music of the flattened spheres, orbiting eternally on black tracks and then shooting you into the day each time the needle has to lift off.
Fanchild 