Ruth Radelet

Nearly unrecognizable as the work of the one-time punk rock outfit, Night Drive is effectively Chromatics' third debut album in a row, following a wholesale transformation in sound and style and yet another lineup change: Adam Miller is again the sole constant member; vocalist Ruth Radelet is a new addition even since the 2006 teaser Nite, replacing Lena Okazaki, while Glass Candy's Johnny Jewel, who produced that single, is now a full-fledged member. Actually, this seems to be Jewel's record more than anyone's – in the silver-screen conceit of the liner notes he's listed as director to Miller's screenwriter, though he also has a writing credit on all the record's originals, only four of which (the vocal songs) Miller co-wrote – indeed, Jewel is emerging as the primary musical force behind much of the Italians Do It Better label. Among that camp of synthesizer-disco revivalists, Chromatics stand out as the most lush and cinematic, drawing on the more languorous, atmospheric aspects of '80s electronica to fashion a hazy imaginary soundtrack to a stylish, decadent noir film (as the album's visual presentation suggests) or just a lonely late-night drive (as per the opening "Telephone Call").

You don’t come to Chromatics for the songs so much as the opportunity to linger in the world in which the songs transpire: Eerie, stylish, unsettled but seductive—a horror movie so pretty you don’t see the silver for blade or the red for blood until it’s too late. Surprise-released in late 2019 after a years-long period during which they teased an entirely different album (the hypothetical Dear Tommy, whose 25,000 physical copies producer/songwriter Johnny Jewel supposedly destroyed), Closer to Grey leans on the lighter side of the band’s sound, shifting between beatless meditations (“Wishing Well”, an unnerving take on “The Sound of Silence”) and brittle, ethereal synth-pop (“You’re No Good”, the downtempo “Light as a Feather”).

Somewhere there exists an alternate reality in which the cinema, the old cinema, was never eroded by television — a world where teenage lovers still flee small towns for ninety minutes at a time to revel in the extravagant fantasies of the silver screen, movie theatre marquees on every block beckoning with the warm glow of incandescent bulbs & titles that evoke the mysteries found therein. Here the movies still bear the faint edge of danger & the unknown, the erotic thrill of a dream, everything raining color. Closer to Grey is the soundtrack of that world. A Technicolor epic in mellotron & theremin, organ & celeste. It sounds like a reverie — a communiqué from a more romantic place.