Last updated: 15 hours ago
S.C.A.B. is the sound of a city cracked open and buzzing with late-night possibility. Formed in Ridgewood, Queens, the band channels the lived-in tension of New York life into something both restless and contemplative.
Frontman Sean Camargo writes like someone pulling moments out of thin air: soft subway collisions, the weight of a partner’s silence, the slow grief of change. The band’s name, once just an acronym, now feels more like a symbol of regeneration—a hardened edge formed by years of personal and collective growing pains.
On their new album, Somebody In New York Loves You!, S.C.A.B. turns inward and stretches wide. The songs lean into vulnerability without retreating into abstraction, drawing inspiration from Camargo’s psychedelic-fueled realizations, intimate journal entries, and moments of raw emotional rupture.
Much of the album was written in a creative surge following a psychic reading that left Camargo feeling oddly affirmed. That sense of magical realism runs through the record’s DNA: a cassette player, a worn book of matches, a Coney Island ride card on a messy desk, dreams of lost parents returning, and sonic callbacks to early-2000s stadium rock filtered through New York’s post-punk alleys. At times, the band sounds huge, like they’re aiming to fill a field—and at others, eerily close, like a voice memo you weren’t meant to hear.
Frontman Sean Camargo writes like someone pulling moments out of thin air: soft subway collisions, the weight of a partner’s silence, the slow grief of change. The band’s name, once just an acronym, now feels more like a symbol of regeneration—a hardened edge formed by years of personal and collective growing pains.
On their new album, Somebody In New York Loves You!, S.C.A.B. turns inward and stretches wide. The songs lean into vulnerability without retreating into abstraction, drawing inspiration from Camargo’s psychedelic-fueled realizations, intimate journal entries, and moments of raw emotional rupture.
Much of the album was written in a creative surge following a psychic reading that left Camargo feeling oddly affirmed. That sense of magical realism runs through the record’s DNA: a cassette player, a worn book of matches, a Coney Island ride card on a messy desk, dreams of lost parents returning, and sonic callbacks to early-2000s stadium rock filtered through New York’s post-punk alleys. At times, the band sounds huge, like they’re aiming to fill a field—and at others, eerily close, like a voice memo you weren’t meant to hear.
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