Heat Manager

The Cosmic American wave continues to crest on the both coasts this year, holding on tight to the heels of 2024. This one’s been baking for a while, and I’ve seen the band pinned to bills by a bevy of friends in the last few years. Heat Manager sits well in the hangdog end of the genre, not dabbling in heavy streaks of country or stacked vocal visions. Instead the band rolls their denim riffs in a bit of road dirt, pulls their hats down low and leans in to the sun while giving a bit of grief to the indie boom gone bust of their Brooklyn surroundings. The latter comes courtesy of songwriter Jake Rabinbach, who finds catharsis retreading crap Coachella experiences (ostensibly in the ranks of Francis and the Lights) and scrawling through the curdled and expired ennui that wafts off the memories of the early aughts.

The band isn’t looking for any further brushes with music supervisor bait, and while there are some smirks to be had taking the piss out of the Pitchfork years, the band shines between the album’s bookend barbs. Counting members of High Times in the ranks, the band’s already got a built-in engine and it shows as they let the choogle take the wheel. The album hits its groove in the midsection, rolling out of the confessional cadence for a skid through Americana’s threadbare boogie that embraces it’s aches with grace. The band works to balance riffs with their rakish charms, and it’s a fun debut that sets the band on their way.

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