The Phillies. Hoagies. Cheesesteaks at Geno’s and Pat’s (fight me).
Throwing batteries at Santa. Going down the shore. The Hooters. The Phillies.
The Eagles. South Street. Springsteen. Blue collar. Man Man. The Phillies.
Hallowed Bells.
Darian Scatton and Alison Stout transcend all this stuff with some
organs and some synthesizers. They scrape the shit from their shoes on the
awful city streets and soar over the skyline, blooming with magic and light. Even
the name “Hallowed Bells” evokes a sense of reverence, hushed whispers in
remote monasteries. Maybe intoning these dense hymns awakens a deep, dark,
forgotten power.
The melodies are gorgeous. The sound
these instruments makes is gorgeous. It’s not ear candy, it’s ear comfort, like your eardrums are wearing
the softest pajamas imaginable. Want an easy category? It’s sort of
instrumental dream pop, maybe a little pastoral goth. As in, you don’t need to
wear black or anything to enjoy it.
Whatever entity Hallowed Bells is conjuring, it will return to smite
the City of Brotherly Love and remove it from the map, to return southeastern
Pennsylvania to its beatific natural state. I’m OK with that. As long as it
leaves Citizen’s Bank Park alone.
--Ryan Masteller
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