As of late 2023, there are at least eight images of the Kool-Aid Man scattered across the Sunwatchers Bandcamp page. He's an unlikely mascot for an anti-capitalist experimental rock band, but since appearing on the group's 2019 album cover Illegal moves in full-on Braveheart regalia standing triumphantly over a mutilated corpse of Uncle Sam, his presence within the band's cheeky branding was omnipresent. Naming the 2020 sequel Oh! Yes? it was a not-so-subtle nod in his direction. The group's tongues are firmly planted in their cheeks, and blatant IP theft aligns with their anarchist politics. But the exuberant, barrier-breaking energy of their brand ambassador is mirrored in the unbridled exuberance at the heart of the band's music.
The Sunwatchers exist in a lineage of musicians and performers who create politically radical work that revels in the spirit of invention and is charged with hopeful defiance. Like the Bread and Puppet Theatre, they construct a local spectacle that is incredibly entertaining. Like the Art Ensemble of Chicago, they use jazz as the groundwater that feeds a holistic practice that playfully and provocatively challenges artistic norms. As an orchestral band, Sunwatchers convey all of this through sound alone, countering their triumphant melodies with skronk sax blasts and the lingering repetition of minimalism. Think of it as solidarity fuel: a jolt of revelry to replenish the spirits of those engaged in the daily struggle of existence and resistance.
Since the start of the pandemic, Sunwatchers have been significantly less productive than in the previous half decade. Music is a victory over time is the quartet's first album in more than three years, and their approach has changed in subtle ways. The valleys are now just as strong as the peaks, and the darkness at the fringes is more apparent, if still largely distant. The relatively restrained “Foams” plays like the opening moments of the jam section on the Grateful Dead's “Playing in the Band” extended into a shimmering ebb and flow of electric guitar arpeggios. Closer “Song for the Gone” punctuates the album with a wistful tribute to lost friends that culminates in a three-chord chorus—a rare retreat into traditional song form.
