Think The Smithereens, The B-52’s, The Ventures, and PIXIES, then push your imagination into some unchartered lush lands of pop and you’ve got *repeat repeat.

Wray isn’t afraid to revel in repetition, churning (like butter) confident, seamless grooves firmly in the tradition of NEU!, Faust, or Can. Their shimmering, headphone-ready tones owe much to Slowdive, My Bloody Valentine, and even The Cure, but without the crippling self-absorption of chillwave, dreampop, or whatever all the sad bastards are listening to this week. It’s music for an audience, for a rock show. It’s got a beat and you can dance to it. The band is Wray and the album is Wray and you can play it at a party and people will like it.