if I could change things I would
but it still was your choice
hiding making your love look absent
as you silence your voice
Sex Park, a Portland-born trio, channels the cold pulse of synthpop and the brooding energy of darkwave into a sound both restless and electric. Founded in 2016 by Daniel Blumenthal and Paul Burkhart, the band layers intricate guitar melodies over post-punk beats and shimmering synths, drawing inspiration from the likes of New Order, Depeche Mode, house music, and rave culture. Blumenthal’s detached, cerebral lyrics cut through the instrumentation, offering a cool counterpoint to the driving rhythms. Theirs is a sound born of precision, yet alive with rebellion.
Guitarist Colin Buckley joined the fold in 2019, adding a Johnny Marr-inspired flair to their sound. With their latest offering, the Interlude LP, Sex Park has a deft ability to traverse the raw edges of postmodern detachment while delivering music that feels equally at home on the dance floor and in the depths of reflection.
Stepping forth with a gentle, synth-bathed current, Rose Absolute unfurls at a contemplative pace, guided by pensive guitar pulses and vocals that smolder, flickering into a soft blaze. Within this measured drift, lyrically, the song grapples with recurring missteps and the palpable sting of absence, contending with unspoken truths that lurk just beneath the surface. Yet, for all its regret and longing, a persistent determination glimmers beneath the turmoil—a testament to the quiet resilience that fuels the album’s reflective undercurrent.
“This came from a demo I was working on that we decided sounded like beauty product commercial music,” shares Burkhart. “It’s got a lot of layers, and our friend Jeremy, who produced the album, added some beautifully nuanced details.”
Blumenthal adds, “Rose Absolute is a type of perfume I used to sell when I worked at a beauty store years ago, so the title goes with the skincare product theme of the song. The lyrics are about repeating the same mistakes in relationships because wherever you go, there you are.”
Obligation—a New Order-inspired track with a bittersweet hook layered over a buoyant beat—dives into themes of frustration, detachment, and rejection. “Ah, the fuckboi’s lament,” Blumenthal jokes. “The lyrics are basically a petty argument between two people because communication is a skill no one teaches you.” The song draws sharp emotional lines, balancing unmet expectations with the resolve to move on, defiant yet reflective.
Drag, inspired partly by Lust For Youth, strikes with jangly riffs and dives headfirst into discontent, grappling with mediocrity, strained relationships, and substances that dull but never heal. Bitter exchanges unravel bonds, while fleeting clarity gives way to weariness. “It sounds like a song about a curmudgeon,” Blumenthal quips, summing up the song’s sardonic edge. The cycle of dissatisfaction churns on, relentless and raw.
In sharp contrast, Glassine revels in indulgence. Burkhart calls it a “melodic orgy,” a fitting description for its chaotic energy. The lyrics tackle exhaustion, sleepless nights, and the weight of hidden vices with biting humor and brazen irreverence. Amid this disorder, the track pulses with rebellion, rejecting societal norms while teetering on the edge of self-awareness and self-destruction. Both tracks shine a light on flaws, frustrations, and the sardonic struggles of finding meaning in the chaos of modern life.
Without Reserve, described by Blumenthal as “the existential dread song,” delves into the restlessness of seeking meaning amid chaos. Adoration and aggravation blur into an endless loop of yearning and frustration, with time pressing heavily, its passage more burden than balm. The narrator grapples with self-doubt and external influences that distort clarity, yet persists in confronting the elusive truth, even when it feels just out of reach.
Exponential examines the raw tension of a faltering relationship, where unspoken devotion clashes with inevitable disillusionment. The narrator urges their partner to expose their doubts, craving honesty amid a storm of unmet expectations. Hope and futility lock horns as they realize some connections are destined to misalign, leaving behind a bittersweet longing for something more profound.
Sounding like Paul Banks (Interpol) in a midnight tryst with Elizabeth Fraser (Cocteau Twins), the spellbinding album closer, Bread of Angels, is a fever dream of stark post-punk poetry and dream pop reverie. Fluttering guitars resonate like something lifted from a half-remembered dream, while Debra Ann Wood II’s soaring vocals shimmer through the haze with an otherworldly urgency. That tension—equal parts murk and exaltation—drives the track forward, capturing the dual spirit of both urban claustrophobia and cosmic liberation.
Lyrically, the song confronts our innate need to resist forces that attempt to script our fate. Daniel Blumenthal’s lyrics seethe with the helplessness of a puppet trapped in a preordained drama, yet they burn with iron-willed determination to rewrite that same drama. “Terrified by the idea that life only plays out one way,” he laments, framing these angels not as benevolent guides but as harbingers of stasis. The interplay between the rhythmic pulse and the sweeping vocals suggests a clenched fist raised against the inevitability of going through life on someone else’s terms.
The accompanying video dips into an ominous purple-tinted realm—part feverish séance, part surreal purgatory. The imagery evokes everything from the ethereal transmissions of Klaus Schreiber (the German EVP pioneer who claimed to have glimpsed the dead, including Romy Schneider, through looped video signals) to the nightmarish noir of The Night of the Hunter and David Lynch’s indelible dream logic. A funeral shrouded in mystery unfolds; a car crash smears the edges of reality; skeletons grin from the underworld while burning hands and coffins punctuate the tension. A woman drowns only to sprout angel wings; the moment tinged with catharsis, dread, and otherworldly transcendence. It’s a montage that flirts with the raw aesthetic of Nine Inch Nails videos while recalling the looming urban hellscapes of Metropolis. Hints of The Ring’s otherworldly glitch flit among the frames as though the footage itself is haunted by ghosts from a purer, if lost, cinematic era.
Watch the video for “Bread of Angels” below:
Sex Park’s Interlude is out now. Listen to the album below and order here.
Interlude, produced by Jeremy Wilkins of Underwater Research and Design, emerges from the hands of Verboden Records, the label helmed by the curators of Vancouver’s annual Verboden Festival. It’s the latest offering from Sex Park, a band whose evolution has been deliberate and defiant.
After a self-titled EP steeped in the influence of Suicide, the Screamers, and French cold wave, the band sharpened its synth-driven identity with the singles Dignity and Rhyme or Reason, later anchoring their 2018 LP Atrium on Vacant Decade Records.
Onstage, Sex Park has held their own alongside acts like Soft Kill, Choir Boy, and Black Marble, their sound pulsing with the energy of late-night electricity, drawing audiences into their steady, singular rhythm.
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