This playlist is about California the way all running playlists are about California—as a location that exists primarily in garage rock mythology and endorphin-induced delusion. You're not running in California. You're running in some landlocked Tuesday, chasing a version of the West Coast that got buried under three decades of Bandcamp psych bands and lo-fi production values. La Luz opens with Seattle surf noir. The Orwells bring Chicago garage sneer. The Murlocs deliver Melbourne psych-rock. Everyone's recording their version of a place that never existed outside Brian Wilson's anxiety dreams.
The underground kicks in around track four, when Frankie and the Witch Fingers drag you into neo-psych sprawl that sounds like the Nuggets box set melted in a van. Teen Mortgage and Gee Tee follow with the kind of egg punk and garage chaos that thrives in Bandcamp's darkest corners—bands with 847 monthly listeners who somehow nail the exact energy you need at mile two. This is music made by people who practice in basements and tour in Econolines, which means it understands perseverance in ways stadium rock never will.
Then the psychedelic sprawl hits. Levitation Room doing "Warmth of the Sun" like the Beach Boys recorded through broken amps. Psychedelic Porn Crumpets living up to their name with songs that lurch instead of lock. Meatbodies covering Joy Division's "Disorder" as sweaty psych-punk. Your stride has to chase the beat because the beat refuses to stay in one place. This is what happens when garage rock bands discover Tame Impala and German krautrock in the same week.
The collapse arrives at track ten. FIDLAR's broke punk crashes into Bass Drum of Death's blown-out garage at mile four, right when running stops being physical and becomes a psychological negotiation with your own capacity for suffering. "Shattered Me" sounds like it's shorting out—because it is. John Barrett recorded this in Mississippi with fuzz pedals and zero production budget, burying his vocals in the mix and letting the guitar threaten to collapse under its own distortion. Everything holds together through sheer momentum, which is exactly what you're doing when your legs start questioning the fundamental premise of voluntary cardiovascular stress.
The controlled demolition follows. Naked Giants' fuzz, Thee Oh Sees' kraut-garage precision, Death Lens momentum. You're falling apart with purpose now. The Murlocs return for round two, Allah-Las bring desert psych for the long comedown. The intensity drops but the miles don't stop.
Local H ends it with grunge nostalgia for California, Shannon & The Clams with doo-wop surf punk about leaving. Next time means elsewhere. Next time means a different route, a different playlist, a different version of the place you're pretending to run toward. The soundtrack for next time is always about somewhere else.
