Normally when a band is fronted by a singer that never actually opens his throat you're kind of waiting for something to happen. You're constantly curious if the dude's going to fucking belt some shit out, or just stay his whisper-soft self. Yet his reserve is one of the reasons you're listening so intently to the fucking band, so you wait and you wait and you wait, and when that muthafucker gets a tid bit angsty you throw your fucking hands in the air like a Bulls fan in the 90s.
I had this exact experience with the Chicago band American Wolf.
They sound like an acoustic post rock band, but with a front man who has the quiet side of the Mars Volta down fucking pat. It's peaceful until it's fucking creepy and it's fucking creepy until it's unsettling enough to make you start the individual fucking tracks over.
Their latest album titled tales of kamanakera is a delicate and eerie plate of what the Fuck?, but all the while keeping its consistent comfort and "jesus shitting on a piece of naan, this couldn't feel more perfect".
The song Muted Colors takes the guitar and vocals and sees them mimicking each other to the point where you're wondering if you aren't being fucked with it's so damn fucking hell yea. There's this constant whisper soft guy wielding a fucking scythe, chopping down what you assumed this shit was going to sound like, and just when you think you've got the shit fingered out, it's even better than you imagined.
American Wolf are as disarming as they are fucking creepy as shit, but it's that mixture of familiar and "what the Fuck are you licking your fucking finger for dude?" that makes it what it is.
And what it is, is fucking hell fucking yes.