One Million Motors is deja vu, like stories from strangers where you already know the ending. lt’s the coffee and cigarette musings of The Menzingers; the tongue twitching urgency of the Descendents; the stumbling everyman poetics of The Gaslight Anthem, like Stiff Little Fingers playing The Menzingers songs.
The words and sounds differ but it’s that same stomach-knotting sense of familiarity because you know these stories. You’ve lived them. It’s gritty realism. It’s a knife to the belly, staring at blood-red hands as your guts spill onto the floor. It’s the sound of turning thirty and realising you’re just as lost as you were at fifteen, that worn exteriors hide delicate souls, that we all mess up and make mistakes.
OMM is every stale boozy kiss that’s graced your lips. It’s every inner-monologue that narrates your failings. It’s confirmation that the Monday to Friday numbness cracks when the clock strikes five, that soundtracks aren’t just for ears but also for hearts. OMM is affirmation that the hungry animal looms and that may be for tonight you’re invincible.