They play guitar and nothing else. They sing alone. I heard about John Mayer
through Bob at dumpfile.com. His voice peers out of the black curtains of quiet in the space between it and the guitar. It slips into song like a man slips into a room, dark like the dark of night
tables and silent like a killer or a lover.
Matt's voice sounds like it's fighting for freedom from his jaw, from the sleek of his neck, caught in the back of your throat like a slip of wine. He's got those eyes and smile of your boy next door and he may very well be, but his voice would lead you otherwise to believe that there is always more than you can see.
Shmuel can be raspy or light, high and shivering. His voice is soothing, one that I missed before I even lost it, a voice of loss but not hopeless. If he ever wrote a song about me, it would likely break my heart, so I am glad that is unlikely to happen.
They clear out the capsule of what we know as music, as songs or singing. They each stand or sit with nothing to guard them but the instrument they hold, each a guitar each, and some penned words and fluctuation. If only for their voice could you dream of kissing them, or to watch them in an average light just to see if they would still glow as they do when they play.
They can be found on mp3.com as follows: