Stars Go Dim’s new album, “Roses,” has a peculiar effect; it settles into a room less like music and more like a change in the atmospheric pressure. There’s a plush, amber-toned sound here, a vibe so authentically steeped in 1970s groove that you can almost feel the corduroy under your fingertips.
Chris Cleveland’s vocals, smooth and seasoned like worn-in denim, glide over bass lines that amble rather than race. This isn’t music in a hurry. It has a bus schedule from 1974 and it’s perfectly content to wait.
The entire project is a gentle argument for finding the profound in the prosaic, for seeing the divine thumbprint on a coffee mug or in a stranger’s fleeting kindness.
Listening, I was suddenly reminded of the intricate, almost floral patterns on old cast-iron sewer grates—an anonymous artist, decades ago, decided that even something so utilitarian deserved a moment of beauty. That’s the sort of perceptual shift “Roses” seems to be nudging us toward. It doesn’t preach from a pulpit; it offers a knowing nod from across a crowded room, suggesting there’s something holy in the very act of paying attention.
This collection charts a journey away from the frantic chase for more, proposing a quiet rebellion of gratitude. The lyrics advocate for a re-evaluation not with fireworks and epiphanies, but with the steady confidence that a little bit of hope is enough fuel to get you through the day. It’s the sound of choosing presence over productivity, a quiet act of defiance against the relentless hum of modern hustle.
“Roses” doesn’t hand you a perfectly manicured bouquet. It seems more interested in getting you to notice the good soil you’re already standing on. What if peace isn’t something you have to find, but simply something you have to uncover?
