Trick Shooter Social Club’s “Television,” isn’t some shiny, manufactured anthem. It’s a scratched-up record, the kind you pull out after a long day where everything tasted like cardboard and feels the same kind of worn in and comfortable. This Chicago outfit, led by Larry Liss and Steve Simoncic, they’ve bottled that feeling into a song about quiet corners and the kind of love that grows between the couch cushions. The ones where the TV flickers not as background noise, but a shared silent world in itself.

You know how sometimes a faded photograph can say more than a textbook? That’s “Television.” It hums with a low-lit energy that feels less like a stadium show and more like leaning against a sun-baked wall, listening to the wind rustle in the dry leaves of an old maple. I keep thinking about a scene from a old black and white film, where two souls find a dance in the grey spaces between everyday chores. A shared laugh while hanging the laundry, that kind of thing, and not too dissimilar from how I once felt watching an old episode of Twilight Zone as a young child. Which, by the way, also has an undercurrent of unease, just like life I guess.

Trickshooter Social Club roots-rock that doesn’t shout, doesn’t try to reinvent the wheel; it simply rolls along, finding beauty in the ordinary. The comfort isn’t found in grand declarations, or promises made but in the tiny gestures of care, small acts, almost unspoken. These guys are crafting a sonic porch, inviting you in for a spell, not because they’re bursting with new ideas, but because their old ones hold so much real lived-in feeling. And I suppose, isn’t that what really makes us human. A love, that makes the hum of existence slightly less humdrum.

Ultimately, “Television,” makes you want to find the person closest to you, and just listen. And that’s, a fairly grand achievement in itself.

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