Houston is a harsh, massive, cancerous mess of a city, both sprawling and claustrophobic, a tangle of congested freeways and trickle-away economics. Millions of people with rear-view mirror dreams commuting across concrete swamps controlled by a handful of ruddy-faced men who sweat pork fat and petroleum. If you're lucky you might land an oil job that allows you sit at an air-conditioned desk and eventually construct your own tiny pocket universe, one where you might cultivate passions beyond Netflix and alcoholism.
Buoyant Spirit are a trio led by Brett Taylor, born and raised in Pasadena, one of the refinery towns on Houston's industrial outer crust. Close enough to absorb the city's poison radiation but with enough distance to realize where the glow comes from and why it is false. Baked in the heat and suffocated by the air, love becomes a desperate abstract and hope a goddam laugh riot.
In Houston, self-deception is a primary survival skill. Buoyant Spirit represents a tiny part of Houston that got sick of lying to itself. They make music with electronics and drums and a guitar.