Let me tell you something—listening to “Falling From The Floor” feels a bit like slipping through the cracks of your own memories. It’s not about soaring or plummeting. No. MJ Lake and his Salt Lake-based cohort (Dylan Schorer, M. Horton Smith, Travis Mickelson, and the enigmatic touch of Joshy Soul) have crafted something that doesn’t rise or fall. It levitates in that strange, almost liminal space between reality and gut feelings.

You can feel the urgency. The album is live, but it doesn’t try to remind you it’s live. There’s this rawness—they resist the urge to polish it too much. It’s like they’re hyper-aware that the process of smoothing things out often scuffs out the magic, you know?

Lyrically, it’s personal without being self-absorbed. There’s the sweeping sense of trying to stitch together individual fractured epiphanies into something cohesive—and, by God, they actually do it. The songs pulse with that kind of pent-up frustration and hope that 2020 and the years that clawed in after it left behind.

The band? They’re not just playing through these tracks; they’re bleeding into the fabric of each song. It’s like a painting that’s not done but is better for leaving room to breathe. Schorer’s guitar seems less about phrases and more about textures—at one moment brooding, and the next it’s pulling you into some half-lit dive bar of your imagination. Meanwhile, Joshy Soul’s keys act like some unexpected, mischievous mediator, reminding you that emotions don’t always follow the rules.

An album like this feels necessary right now, but not because it’s trying to “say something important.” Its beauty lies in how it communicates when it isn’t trying too hard to communicate at all.

I think we’re all falling from the floor a bit, aren’t we?

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