Words by James Nestor

The inhabitants of the village of Sulphur Bay on the island of Tanna in the South Pacific have worshiped American servicemen since the US Army landed there during World War II. The villagers had never seen Westerners before; they believed them gods and developed a new hybridized religion around them: part ritualized tradition and improvised assumption.

This is an example of regressive cultural assimilation, of what happens when foreign and unforeseen elements are suddenly introduced into staid and conventional forms: something new evolves, something other. It is the same amalgam that is compressed in the undulating, capricious rhythms and soul-boarding keystrokes of Hatchback’s music.

It starts with a titter of a high-hat, a twinkle of a vintage Casio, a phased bass dropped sidestep to a martial kick. Midway through ambling melodies find focus, the road comes into view: on a twilight horizon of the Pacific Ocean, the neon-glow of a miles-high DNA double-helix reflects on black-glass water. Sam Grawe is at the wheel. An empty bottle of Coppertone sits crumpled on the cat-hair-covered passenger seat. In the dash an 8-track plays “Closer to Forever,” the best song off this, Hatchback’s new chrome-sparkled album. But keep looking ahead. If at times Grawe appears to be taking too much of a circuitous route or stalling out, worry not. The key works every time. And this is the only road that leads to Sulphur Bay.