The first two minutes of Sun June's third album, Bad Dream Jaguar, is a reverie - Laura Colwell's voice floats above a slow-burn, sparse synth, conjuring a tipsy loneliness, a hazy recollection, a disco ball spinning at the end of the night for an empty dance floor. Sun June's music often feels like a shared memory - the details so close to the edge of a song that you can touch them. And as an Austin-based project, their music has also always felt strangely and specifically Texan - unhurried, long drives across an impossible expanse of openness, refractions shimmering off the pavement in the heat.
