The first time I heard Glitterati, (October 3rd, MTS Records) I thought: Jesus Christ, this guy really did it—he built a neon carousel, tossed us on the painted horses, and hit the switch until the whole goddamn thing was spinning fast enough to make us puke sparkles. Argyro—Pittsburgh-bred, California-tempered, Colorado-bunkered—has written a soundtrack for the delusion we all crave: that we’re a little bit famous, a little bit tragic, and a whole lot cooler than we actually are.
The title track “Glitterati” doesn’t even pretend to hide its narcissism. It’s swagger in 4/4, a star-shaped boomerang hurled at the skulls of every paparazzo we’ve secretly wished would snap our picture at Walgreens. Argyro chants the word like a spell—Glitterati, Glitterati, Glitterati—until you start believing you might actually be one, even if the only spotlight in your life is the microwave clock at 2 a.m. What saves it from collapsing under its own rhinestones is his drummer’s pulse: relentless, precise, and desperate, like he’s trying to pound the beat straight into immortality.
Then comes “Cool Shades,” a track that’s either the best vacation you ever took or the dumbest postcard you ever sent. It’s got this lazy, sunburnt groove, like Jimmy Buffett met The Strokes on the beach, and neither had enough sunscreen or shame. Argyro croons about “walkin’ on water” and “sippin’ devotion,” and damn it, against my better judgment, I wanted to be there, sipping the potion, hiding away from the world’s nastiness in the “cool, cool shade.” It’s escapism without apology, and in 2025, that’s practically a revolutionary act.
“She’s So LA” slams in like a convertible with the top down on the 405, vanity mirrors flipped open, Santa Ana winds blowing toxic romance into your bloodstream. It’s ridiculous, it’s melodramatic, it’s perfect. Because isn’t that what LA is? One big drive-by shot of sunshine that blinds you long enough to forget the smog. Argyro plays it straight, no irony, no wink—and that’s why it works. He actually believes this woman, this city, this mirage is worth crashing your car for. And maybe she is.
But just when you’re ready to write him off as another pop peacock, he hits you with “House Upon the Mountainside” and “Lifeline.” These songs are quieter, haunted. The former smells like wet pine and candle wax, a storm rolling across the Rockies while you sip dandelion tea and think about all the people you’ve lost. The latter is the closest thing to a manifesto: “Everyone’s tongue is shaped like a knife / Everyone hates the other side.” Argyro’s calling bullshit on the endless culture war, throwing us a lifeline woven out of melody, reminding us that under the glitter, we’re all just blood and love trying to get back to the same river.
Is Glitterati perfect? Hell no. It’s messy. Some songs sound like they were written on napkins at 3 a.m. in a bar that doesn’t exist anymore. Some lyrics are so obvious they almost make you gag (“Feeling like a Sangria Night” might as well come with a two-drink minimum). But that’s exactly why it rules. It’s human. It’s gaudy. It’s sentimental. It’s Argyro handing you his sunglasses and daring you to see the world through his smudged, cracked lenses.
Glitterati isn’t an album. It’s a fever dream of what fame tastes like when you know you’ll never really have it but you chase it anyway, because the chase is all there is. And if that isn’t rock and roll,I don’t know what is.
–Leslie Banks