sweetly selected | june 2022

Written by: Theodore Klein, Curt Schibli, Patrick Freeman
Lyrics by: Theodore Klein
Theodore Klein (Vocals, Piano, Synth), Patrick Freeman (Drums, Bass, Percussion Guitar, Glock)
Produced by: Theodore Klein
Mixed by: Jason Staniulis
Mastered by Sterling (Joe LaPorta)

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Purchase - https://apple.co/3gh6skj
Stream - https://spoti.fi/2XBACIh

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Welcome to Side Dishes, a series of songs, some new and some never previously released, that we'll be dropping on SoundCloud & YouTube in-between official releases. Subscribe/Follow to catch new ones on the last Sunday of every month.

Freedom Fry - Dirty Water

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The song “Beverly Hills” both embraces the opulence of the Rodeo Drive lifestyle while simultaneously pointing out the ultimate absurdity of it all. Growing up in Altadena, on the outskirts of Los Angeles, I always loved hearing stories of the lavish lifestyle occurring just over the hill. These stories were always embellished, which, on top of the extravagance of reality, made them almost absurd.

Diamond studded supermodels ordering champagne service to the pool, oiled up to their ears in search of that nonexistent tan line. Spoiled tweens buying thousand-dollar cupcakes on limitless credit cards. Newborn babies wearing 24K gold Rolexes, riding around in limited edition Louis Vuitton strollers. All of it seemingly impossible, yet a quick internet search would reveal every story completely plausible.

It’s a life of augmented reality in the truest sense of the word, where airbrushed and photoshopped images have leapt from the page and onto the faces and bodies of otherwise natural beauties. Beauties who have been sucked into the allure of envy: glitter, glam, altered faces, frames, and bank accounts, many immersed in a lifestyle beyond their means, hoping to one day rub shoulders with the right person and hit the lottery of high society.

In the end it’s hard to fault anyone. We’re in a time where success means pleasing a cold, unfeeling algorithm that rewards likes and comments over genuine artistry. Where posting a photo drinking cold brew in negligee would outperform the cure for cancer. And like an Olympics of steroid-crazed athletes, it’s difficult to compete without cheating.

In the song, I indulge in the Wonka-esque pageantry and it is me waltzing the sunny streets with my iced wrist and honey bronze tan. I am the supermodel, the spoiled tween, the newborn baby. And it ends with my orchestral dream escape from suburban normality, as I dance the night away with Bill Murray, drunk on careless irresponsibility, lost in the slow motion of future reminiscence.

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IMBER

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