Mom and the Mailman is the brainchild of Long Beach native Malcolm Bennett, 25.
But wait — was it the other way around?
Well, whatever it was, or happens to be now, is really beside the point.
There’s new vision here. It’s an infant’s eyes unfurling out into the bright lights, limbs spastic and syrupy, freshly emerged from a bloody womb. It’s Metal Machine Music, haunted by a wayward spirit wailing out through the auditory abyss.
Despite that referential description however, Mom and Mailman is not wrapped in a morass of marketing according to its influences. There’s only a glue-drenched guitar (hurling through the maw of a beast incubating in the unknown), the rhythms of a jarring drum machine, and of course, Malcolm, the main man himself.
All the existential weight of self-conscious inquiry is absent. There is no “what are you trying to say?” moments with Mom and the Mailman. There are only answers, accusations and artillery.
Mom and the Mailman need a place of their own, preferably when the kids aren’t home.

Giuseppe Ricapito