Matt McClure won’t coddle you with platitudes. With his fifth studio album, you are like the moon to me (out since April 14, 2025), the Las Vegas singer-songwriter blasts the amp wide open on life’s messy, no-script chaos. Forget your average midlife crisis tunes—this is a snarling, foot-stomping, acoustic-laced riot that’ll grab you by the throat and drag you through the existential mud. Recorded largely on his damn phone, McClure’s DIY-ism bleeds through every fuzzy riff and soul-rattling vocal, proving once and for all that grit with no gloss trumps studio polish any day of the week.
Let’s get down to brass tacks: McClure’s a one-man demolition squad. He’s belting out vocals, shredding guitars, and probably mic’ing up his kitchen sink in that makeshift studio of his. The result? A Frankenstein’s monster of sound that stitches together indie rock’s gritty core, alt-rock’s brooding attitude, college rock’s wired energy, and a sprinkle of synth-soaked pop for good measure. Tracks like “Coughers” and “Solid Stares” charge forward on six-string adrenaline, while “Yarn Collective” and “Distant Dogs” strip it down to acoustic bones and trembling vocal cords. The rhythm section? It’s rhythm as religion. Basslines throb like a nervous system on Red Bull, while drums swing from primal stomps (“Eastern Outs”) to frenetic, cymbal-crashing catharsis (“Bill Country”). McClure’s guitar work is the star, though—jagged where it needs to be, melodic when it counts, like a switchblade with a heart.
McClure’s not singing at you—he’s howling with you. The album’s concept? Picture this: You wake up one day, 35-ish, and realize you’re hurtling through space with no damn clue how you got here. you are like the moon to me is that dizzying freefall set to music. “It’s like a space alien suddenly arriving in America with no idea what’s going on,” McClure snarks, and tracks like “Former Farmer” and “That Coach Is Lying” nail that disorientation. This ain’t whiny navel-gazing; it’s a big middle finger to the “adulting” myth, packed with mosh-pit-ready anthems for anyone who’s ever Googled “how to human” at 3 a.m.
McClure’s voice is like whiskey poured over gravel – sometimes a desperate whisper (“Yarn Collective”) and full-throated snarls (“Coughers”). There’s a reason this guy’s cult following worships him: He’s the everyman’s poet, spinning tales of love, loss, and WTF moments without a shred of pretense. His delivery on “Eastern Outs” alone—a throaty, half-spoken confession over guitars—should be bottled and sold as therapy.
The 12-song gauntlet never lets up. Opener “Coughers” kicks the door in with a fuzzed-out riff and McClure’s barked hook, setting the tone for the chaos ahead. “That Coach Is Lying” stomps like a pissed-off Replacements B-side, while “Rangraw” (yeah, we don’t know either) slinks on a sinister bass groove. For the headphone warriors, “Distant Dogs” is a haunting acoustic closer that’ll leave you staring at the ceiling, questioning every life choice. But the crown jewel? “Solid Stares”—a turbocharged anthem where McClure’s guitar solo sounds like it’s being played with a broken beer bottle.
Let’s address the elephant in the room: This album was mostly recorded on a phone. And guess what? It sounds gloriously unvarnished. The lo-fi grit on “Former Farmer” gives its folk-punk twang an extra layer of realness, like McClure’s demo-ing tracks in a storage unit. But don’t confuse “rough” with “sloppy”—every hiss and hum is intentional, a middle finger to Pro Tools perfection. This is music that sweats, bleeds, and probably smells like stale coffee.
you are like the moon to me is a lifeline for anyone drowning in the “adult” façade. Picture some scruffy philosopher holding court in a dive bar, armed with nothing but a beat-up Fender and a whole lot of opinions. Matt McClure didn’t just make an album—he built a ragged, beautiful monument to the beautifully lost. Blast the static, et the feedback burn through your brain fog,, and remember: Nobody knows what they’re doing. And that’s okay.