Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeros

I'm listening to the new Edward Sharpe album, and it is amazing.

A polyphonic safari through times and places passed. Tunnels of psychedelia and waterfalls of soul bleed from the 1's and 0's arranging themselves inside my magnetic hard-drive, floating toward my ears to create this sound. The album is as lyrically strong as it is listenable, and dancey too. Musically, it is epic and driven. It sets its sights on a mountainous peak, accessible only by way of thick forest, great grassy fields, dark valleys and rivers; sandy beaches at sunset.

Edward Sharpe and his Magnetic Zeros have revealed themselves as the dead-raising gypsies they really are - having recruited a symphony of musicians, melodies and rhythms from dead times - resurrecting sounds buried inside old boxes. The album weaves together vibrant soundscapes of soul and jazz, folk, R&B, big band, gospel, psychedelia, honky-tonk and blues. It is one of the most chimerical albums I've ever heard, a chameleon darting across a rainbow in the sky.

The second track, Let's Get High hits hard, with the hanging dangles and jingling jangles, clapping percussion and tapping tambourines you expect from The Magnetic Zeros. The song moves between motifs evoking Ray Charles or Sam Cooke, sauntering into a Beatles-esque chant that marches toward the song's undying and spiraling psychedelic finale. If I Were Free, easily one of my favorites from the album, hides a bassy melody, punctuated by moments of dreamy synth, existing somewhere between an 80's dance-track and Pink Floyd or The Moody Blues - and many places in between - while delivering a beautifully crafted story, vivid as a vision.

They Were Wrong is a track haunted by the hum of Johnny Cash. It booms and bristles with shades of his voice, the air almost warm with his breath. The smooth Motown baseline of In the Summer slides up and down an old wooden neck, sounding like it could've once belonged to The Temptations. This Life, an epic soul-searching existential crises, starting with a hum on top of some sleep-walking melody from the 1950's, opens with the words "I've been trying to pretend that death is my friend." It is somber and beautiful and vulnerable, and it becomes nearly religious in sound when the gospel singers burst forth, pounding on your ears like fists on locked doors, their voices vibrating in a sharp gold. They leave him as he sings "I've walked into black, said I weren't coming back," just to return with the words "saw my angel in blue." Tender trembling vocals give rise to chills that raise countless little mountains across your skin; giant hot-air-ballons rubbed across carpets pull at the hairs on your arms as they pass.

Their brand of variegated Gypsyfolk charms the ears and wraps itself around anything cold, like a colorful silk scarf on a chilly grey day. There is something mystical about it, magical in its multifacetience. Adventurously capricious, the album is an impressive assortment of sounds, different, but each fitting and belonging on the album. There is a strong sense of belonging on the album actually, and no sound or style is denied; participation and assimilation are encouraged, almost ordained.

It's an album imploring you to dance with it. To haunt dead dance floors - where you belong.