Nero Simon and the Sunsetters

Somewhere between the twilight daze of a dying beach town and the first trembling notes of a steel-string guitar, there exists a band not born—but summoned. Nero Simon and the Sunsetters didn’t just form; they washed ashore, reeking of rum, haunted by the ghosts of ’70s yacht rock and the sun-drunk optimism of a lost American summer. Their music feels like a fever dream stitched from the remnants of AM radio gold and the salt-stained pages of a sailor’s diary—if the sailor also kept notes on which beach bars served the strongest piña coladas.

Led by the enigmatic Nero Simon—a man who may or may not have seen God while nursing a bourbon hangover at a Gulf Coast motel—the Sunsetters operate like a sonic cult. Their mission? A full-blown coastal-rock awakening. Warm, analog vibes. Harmonies so smooth they could talk their way out of a speeding ticket.

Think smoky twilight on a forgotten marina. Think heartache served in a coconut shell. Think Dan Fogelberg on peyote, drifting through the Florida Keys in a battered speedboat while a warped Steely Dan cassette warbles in the dash. Their songs carry the feeling of emotional jet lag—like you just landed from 1978 and aren’t entirely sure you want to go back.

So who are these people? Last true romantics of rock ’n’ roll? Industry outlaws rebelling against the cold tyranny of the algorithm? Or just a group of absurdist troubadours chasing the eternal sunset, one silky chorus at a time?

Yes. All of the above.