We arrived with a quiet sort of urgency, blanket rolled under one arm and a tote of snacks slung over the other. There was no official mention of a food policy to my knowledge (ignorance is bliss, I digress), but I still had that nagging feeling; was this going to be one of those "no outside food" situations? I had packed what I considered a light feast: soft cheese, sliced fruit, crackers, charcuterie meats, the good bread, chocolate and such; you know, just the essentials.

We walked through the gates without issue and the worry lingered away as we scouted a spot. The venue, carved into the Berkeley hillside like an ancient ruin, had already begun filling in. Groups trickled in with wine tumblers and elaborate spreads beyond my own, unfazed. We hiked up, past the tiered stone Greek seating, until we reached the grass just above the last row. That’s where we found it, the perfect perch. High above the stage, with the Golden Gate Bridge peeking through in the distance and the sky shifting into a creamy, cinematic gradient sunset. I laid out my blanket (made by me, of course), and we settled into our little pocket of hillside calm.

As the sun dipped lower, the crowd’s energy settled into something softer. Conversations quieted. People leaned into their snacks. There was a hush, not of silence, but of anticipation like a film was about to begin and the opening credits were rolling in real time across the horizon.

The stage remained dark. Three grand arches loomed, (the archway stage motif of the 2020s, I dub them) simple and almost monastic. Then the lights came: warm tones pulsing across each arch like a desert sunrise. A slow reveal of pastel color, light shifting like cloud shadows. The band stepped into frame with little fanfare, no intro, no mic banter. Just a trio taking their places. Bass, guitar and drums. The drummer anchored in the back and the guitarist and bassist hopping about the stage.

What followed wasn’t a concert in the traditional sense. It felt more like a score, an atmosphere, a continuous tone poem set to rhythm and movement. Sparse vocals, if any. Heavy reverb. Deep, melodic grooves. You could hear funk, soul, surf rock, something tropical, something nostalgic, something not quite placeable. The visuals were simple but striking; arched gradients and soft animations that pulsed with the tempo. It all moved slowly, like heat waves or the soft curl of incense.

Khruangbin’s sound isn’t easily pinned down and that’s the point. From the moment I first heard "Golden Shield" I was transported; drawn into a 70s soundscape that felt both cinematic and strange, like a sci-fi film directed by René Laloux, dreamy, fluid and surreal. The guitars glide, the rhythm folds in on itself and light seems to move like smoke or sand. That track still gets me every time. It's mood music, but not passive. There’s emotion in the restraint, energy in the space between. It feels both mystical and stoic, like a sonic meditation on the beginning of something almost an ancient song about the fertile crescent of life of sorts. A quiet becoming.

Today feels like a Friday Morning kind of day because it is, in fact, Friday and May 9th no less. Something about May 9th; just past the middle of spring, on the edge of summer, makes that songs feel especially fitting. They both have been favorites. Slow, reflective exhale of any of their tracks let you sit in whatever you’re feeling. Hearing  these two  again today, made the memory of that hillside show feel still fresh, alive and just made sense to share your soon to be favorite band if not already.

You don’t need to know their name to feel the mood shift when their music comes on. But eventually, you’ll ask "who is this?" " Is this from the ’70s?" "The ’60s? " "Some forgotten global funk group?" And the answer is always, kind of… all of the above.

Khruangbin. A name that means "airplane" in Thai. A band whose music floats between genres and timelines, anchored by basslines that thump like heartbeat and guitars that shimmer like heatwaves on asphalt. Their sound is familiar and mysterious all at once, music that could soundtrack a vintage travel documentary, a backyard dinner party or a golden-hour bike ride through empty city streets.

They’re the kind of band that makes you feel something, even if you’re not sure whator when. Their work with Leon Bridges on "Texas Sun" and "Texas Moon" brings even more warmth, blending soul vocals with those same slow-burning grooves. It’s music that doesn’t rush. It lingers, expands, draws you in.

I’ve played Khruangbin during art workshops, over meals, in the background while cooking and booming speakers biking during those strange pandemic days. Every time, someone asks: "Who is this?" The fact that people from every age bracket lean in to ask that same question says a lot. There’s something in the sound that transcends age and genre. Something rooted and expansive. Cool but never cold.

By the time the set closed and we packed up our picnic remains, the sky had deepened into a soft navy. The arches behind the band glowed with a final wash of light. We didn’t rush to leave. We just sat, still perched above it all, letting the music hang in the air a little longer before heading back down the hill. Back to what some would call reality.

-Rheal