I’ve always had a soft spot for that delightfully slacker slouchy, “we-meant-to-do-that” sound—the kind that wanders in late, shrugs, and still steals the show. I mean, I come from the sacred age of Pavement and their wonderfully crooked charm, so it’s basically in my musical DNA.
Now, The Miss Alans? Total mystery creatures to me—until this scrappy little treasure tumbled into my hands like a thrift-store relic with a secret. And really, can we pause for the name? The Miss Alans. It sounds like a group of ghosts who almost introduced themselves properly but got distracted halfway through. I’m intrigued, mildly confused, and fully on board.
As for the songs—The Sad Last Days of Elvis Aron Presley and Anatomy—they feel like they slipped through a cosmic crack from an alternate universe where Nirvana recorded one more session, and Kurt decided to haunt these tracks personally. You can almost hear him lurking in the corners, fogging up the microphones.
Then—boom—Kangaroo. Not just any cover, but that Big Star gem handed down from the ever-enigmatic Alex Chilton. And here, it doesn’t just sit politely—it floats, it shimmers, it sort of gazes into the distance like it knows something we don’t.
And the whole thing? This humble little 45 clocks in at over 15 minutes, which feels less like a single and more like a pocket-sized odyssey…a mini-album that accidentally wandered into a smaller outfit and decided to stay.
Honestly, if this had “Nirvana” stamped across it, it’d probably come with velvet ropes and a triple-digit price tag. But instead? Two bucks. Two! A bargain for a parallel-universe séance set to tape.
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