Static on the hotel intercom.

One of the most underrated indie pop outfits that sadly broke up in 2005, the band My Favorite were the last of New York's true cult heroes, elusive and enigmatic stars of the secret history. They crawled from the suburbs of Long Island to the battered boroughs of New York City, all the while managing to belong nowhere. They created pop songs that feel like films, casting as heroes the misfits, hipsters and monsters of modern life. Beneath shimmering walls of guitars, synthesizers, and melodicas, beat the burning heart of a new wave dream gone wrong. They proposed that our strange age is worth remembering. They redeemed us by caring.

The only words to describe My Favorite. So I had heard a few songs from them a while back. But just recently started to explore more of their albums and lyrics. And all I have to say is... fucking genius. It's so sad to know that a band this amazing is no longer making music. But that might be what makes them so appealing. Knowing that when they ended they almost closed an era. They were the last of their time.

There are grey skies in our blue eyes, but this is not a protest song. This is just static on the hotel intercom, softer than dust and louder than bombs. And the world's not ours tonight in a Berlin flat lit by neon lights. My boyfriend's in the stairwell, he looks just like James Dean, and nothing else matters when you're 17. And the German boys sing, and the German boys talk. Some kids have plans to rule the world, some kids have plans to run away. And you do what you can or you do what you must at the door of the punk rock club, at work at the factory. And the world won't end tonight on a black highway lit by neon lights. My boyfriend's in the driver's seat, he drives just like James Dean, and nothing else matters when you're 17. And the German boys sing, and the German boys talk. Some kids have plans to rule the world, some kids have plans to run away. And you do what you can or you do what you must at the door of the punk rock club, at work at the factory. There are gray skies in our blue eyes, but this is not a protest song.

Photograph by I Love Fake