As much as his evocative sound dotes on alternative pop acts Depeche Mode, Garbage, and even Madonna at her most subversive, it also suggests something greater operating on the periphery: a dark, omnipresent melodrama not unlike the crooning music of David Lynch composer Angelo Badalamenti or the lush, do-or-die romance of a young Lana Del Rey. Nevertheless, his eclectic body of work remains adhered to a certain groovy allusion to opium-den electricians the likes of Portishead and Massive Attack, with his spidery vocals weaving clichés of lust and rock ‘n’ roll menace anew.

 

It is within this blasphemous little slipstream that Ryder Houston’s unique brand of sonic nostalgia exists: a sullen musical seduction echoing back from a liminal moment in time when downtempo music and freeze-dried hip-hop beats managed to infiltrate every hot artist’s discography, mutating genre ties and birthing something wholly itself.

 

     Just hear me out...

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