They craft epic pieces of psychedelic pop music- if Espers broke into Phil Spector’s manor somewhere in the hills of LA, they would eventually get lost in the labyrinthine and baroque corridors of this haunted place, tired and hungry fall asleep in whichever bedroom they happened to stumble upon first, surrounded by statues of grimacing satyrs and hyeratic nymphs, and they would sleep, and they would dream of the revenants of black ghostgirls with astonishing afros shimmying across the room to the tribal stomp of a heartbreaking ballad. And when they woke up they would go back to their van, grab their instruments and make music beautiful like this. This is what they do.
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