Buttons

Funky and a little unhinged, this track moves like something that shouldn't work but absolutely does — a coiled guitar riff that sounds borrowed from a 70s soul session played through a broken amplifier, underpinned by a rhythm section that locks into a groove so tight it almost becomes abstract. The production has a deliberately low-fidelity graininess to it, as though the whole thing was recorded onto a single microphone in a room with bad acoustics, and that roughness is entirely the point. Lacy sings with a pleading, slightly petulant energy, his voice cracking at the edges in a way that underscores vulnerability beneath the swagger. There's something theatrically flirtatious happening lyrically — the song is explicitly about desire and the push-pull of wanting someone's attention, framed with the directness of someone who has decided to stop being subtle. It sits at the intersection of neo-funk and DIY indie R&B, carrying clear debts to Prince and D'Angelo while sounding like neither. The arrangement is deceptively simple — everything stripped back so the central riff and Lacy's vocal can do the heavy lifting. This is music for a party that's moved into the kitchen at midnight, for dancing badly in a small space with people you like too much, for that particular kind of boldness that only arrives after the self-conscious part of the evening has passed.