Asking why more people aren’t talking about this band is pointless. There’s no good answer, nor reasonable excuse.
If you listen to Autolux’s new album, Pussy’s Dead, you’ll understand what I mean. You won’t get further than 42 seconds in before you ask that very question. People should be fucking screaming at the top of their lungens about the American three piece, and their layered, hypnotic soundscapes. With mouths agape and tonsils bare, they should shriek about how Autolux just put out an incredible record that will move every fibre in your body, disconnecting you from the material world and its incessant search for purity and belonging until you feel so far removed from this sphere of fire and ice that you biopsy your own skin to test for alien cells.
Something like that, anyway.