Have you ever been to a coffeehouse quiet enough that you can listen to what’s playing from those little stereo speakers? Usually it’s just a “shut up and play the hits” scenario; I overheard Lorde and Kings of Leon during a recent visit, quiet enough to induce a calm mood but loud enough so you don’t slumber and take up space for too long. Sometimes, away from the Starbucks and Costas, in some backstreet you didn’t know existed, in that conservative, tidied-away café, is a soundtrack of sombre melancholy and quiet contemplation. Acoustic, lo-fi melodies that lull you out of paranoid alertness and into some needed relaxation for once. I am going somewhere with this – Chuck Gonzales, who goes under the moniker Hong Kong, delivers just that. Coffeehouse music.
On debut LP High Noon, Gonzales evokes comparisons to Youth Lagoon and Sufjan Stevens, placing an emphasis on soft, guitar-led instrumentation, pushing the vocal to the background under a ghosly tinge. On one hand, this allows you to appreciate the warm, sedate rhythms, a fine compliment to a peaceful day. On the other hand, that’s all it is. From a first listen of the record, it’s hard to pinpoint particular highlights or moments that stand out, because almost all the songs take the same approach, with little variation even within songs themselves. Sometimes the vocal is so suppressed and sleepy, it becomes incomprehensible, calmly drowned out amongst the light acoustics. Ultimately, its blissful, instrumental dominance goes both ways.
High Noon opens with cabin warmer ‘Through A Door’, looping a curious acoustic riff throughout, that starts comforting and becomes tiresome. ‘Be Easy’ ups the tempo, sounding rather King Krule in delivery, Gonzalez’s vocal brought forward and benefitting as a result. The record certainly has its share of introspective moments, Gonzalez brooding on the title track “I could try to read a stranger’s mind, but then I’m pretty sure I’ll never get it right”, and the record assumes the form of a relatable existential crisis, of fitting in and what it’s all about. High Noon’s best songs are the ones that don’t dwell on notions for too long; ‘Late Bloomer’, with its restrained guitar and howling keys are an example of where this works, whereas ‘Spare Me’ is an example of where it doesn’t.
If I were to pick a highlight, it would be record closer ‘Even The Shiny Kind’, that nails the bedroom demo vibe that the rest of the record sounds like it’s trying to achieve. It also summarises the record’s overarching sentiment in a simple line, “Will I ever feel at home?”. High Noon is frustrating because it has a sonic identity, but not a particularly captivating one. It doesn’t sound like something I can invest in, but acts more as background music to my own dwellings. Coffeehouse music, in the best sense.
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