EP Review: twins – Caravan
Twins is the alter-ego of Loz KeyStone — London-born musician, tattooist, and visual storyteller.
In the closing months of 2024, KeyStone packed up his life in South East London, fresh from a couple of months in the lush, humid wilds of Northern Colombia. There, between the jungle’s green cathedral walls, he worked with Ayahuasca — an experience that cracked something open inside him. Alongside a deep pull toward living closer to nature, it stirred up a need to sing and write again — a part of himself he’d kept locked away for nearly a decade.
Back in the UK, he didn’t return to the city. Instead, he rolled his guitars, laptop, and microphones into a weathered old caravan parked on an apple farm in the West Country. That’s where Caravan, his debut album, began to take shape — songs and DIY videos slipping out one by one, like postcards from a quiet orchard where the nights are full of music and the air smells of apples.
The album opens with Avoidance, a track that steps out bare and unflinching. The bass barely dares to move, leaving great open spaces for the song to breathe. The vocals are bone-dry, pulling you in close — as if you’re perched on a porch or an old stump in the apple orchard, with Loz leaning in to sing directly into your ear.
The guitar arpeggios immediately call to mind John Frusciante’s tender work on RHCP ballads like Under the Bridge, and the solitary, windswept licks that follow carry the same bittersweet weight as the Scar Tissue solo. Throughout, the voice holds a quiet, coiled strength — a pistol hanging on the wall all song long, until the moment it fires with the force and drama of Peter Gabriel.
Feel Your Phone stands out for its unguarded, almost fragile vocals — the kind you want to cup in your hands and stroke like a small, shivering kitten. Beneath them, a soft, swaying guitar keeps strumming, while scattered sound effects drift in and out of focus like fireflies appearing and vanishing in the dusk.
Life Forgetter brings back the now-familiar pairing of warm acoustic arpeggios and ghostly guitar licks. The vocals here are steeped in a sombre, heavy resonance, carrying a gravity reminiscent of Michael Stipe. When the falsetto arrives, it cuts straight through — a shiver that lingers, heightened by ASMR-like textural effects slipping in to decorate the sound. And at its core, the melody itself is a quiet stunner.
A Muted Thing begins with a pulse that’s hard to pin down — its source could be something organic, could be something entirely synthetic. The beat recalls the shadowy, off-kilter rhythms Radiohead embraced from Kid A onward. Over it, the guitar arpeggios weave patterns that wouldn’t feel out of place on the band’s more hushed, introspective moments, especially A Moon Shaped Pool. The vocals are gorgeous — especially when they’re multitracked, wrapping around each other in layers that feel like voices overheard in a dream, harmonies half-remembered when you wake.
Dust follows the path laid out by the previous track, but sinks deeper into bitterness and melancholy — at times, even gut-wrenching. The lyrics take no prisoners, pulling you in close from the very first lines. Yet as the song unfolds, the music steps away from the edge of fear, letting shafts of hope break through. Beautiful, organic textures bloom, and it’s as if you’ve sailed out of a storm into clear, sunlit waters.
After such a rich, meticulously crafted track, Meant the World arrives stripped back and barebones. Once again, we get that beautiful, glassy solo guitar and warm, gentle acoustic arpeggios. But here the melody is a balm for the soul — soft, tender, and irresistibly hummable, the kind of tune that lingers in your mind long after the song has ended.
Then comes the eponymous track, Caravan — ambient music you didn’t even know was your favorite kind of ambient. Guitar effects bloom and vanish like flowers in a secret garden, textures shift and ripple as if alive, and delicate solos ring out, drifting into the air like smoke or whispered secrets.
Here, Away serves as the perfect closer — just guitar and voice, stripped to their barest bones, carrying a quiet, fragile hope. Across the album, each track feels like a secret orchard full of whispered ghosts and hidden paths. By the final note, you realize you’re not just listening — you’ve been wandering through someone else’s dream, and when you finally wake, the air still hums with echoes you can’t quite place.
In the closing months of 2024, KeyStone packed up his life in South East London, fresh from a couple of months in the lush, humid wilds of Northern Colombia. There, between the jungle’s green cathedral walls, he worked with Ayahuasca — an experience that cracked something open inside him. Alongside a deep pull toward living closer to nature, it stirred up a need to sing and write again — a part of himself he’d kept locked away for nearly a decade.
Back in the UK, he didn’t return to the city. Instead, he rolled his guitars, laptop, and microphones into a weathered old caravan parked on an apple farm in the West Country. That’s where Caravan, his debut album, began to take shape — songs and DIY videos slipping out one by one, like postcards from a quiet orchard where the nights are full of music and the air smells of apples.
The album opens with Avoidance, a track that steps out bare and unflinching. The bass barely dares to move, leaving great open spaces for the song to breathe. The vocals are bone-dry, pulling you in close — as if you’re perched on a porch or an old stump in the apple orchard, with Loz leaning in to sing directly into your ear.
The guitar arpeggios immediately call to mind John Frusciante’s tender work on RHCP ballads like Under the Bridge, and the solitary, windswept licks that follow carry the same bittersweet weight as the Scar Tissue solo. Throughout, the voice holds a quiet, coiled strength — a pistol hanging on the wall all song long, until the moment it fires with the force and drama of Peter Gabriel.
Feel Your Phone stands out for its unguarded, almost fragile vocals — the kind you want to cup in your hands and stroke like a small, shivering kitten. Beneath them, a soft, swaying guitar keeps strumming, while scattered sound effects drift in and out of focus like fireflies appearing and vanishing in the dusk.
Life Forgetter brings back the now-familiar pairing of warm acoustic arpeggios and ghostly guitar licks. The vocals here are steeped in a sombre, heavy resonance, carrying a gravity reminiscent of Michael Stipe. When the falsetto arrives, it cuts straight through — a shiver that lingers, heightened by ASMR-like textural effects slipping in to decorate the sound. And at its core, the melody itself is a quiet stunner.
A Muted Thing begins with a pulse that’s hard to pin down — its source could be something organic, could be something entirely synthetic. The beat recalls the shadowy, off-kilter rhythms Radiohead embraced from Kid A onward. Over it, the guitar arpeggios weave patterns that wouldn’t feel out of place on the band’s more hushed, introspective moments, especially A Moon Shaped Pool. The vocals are gorgeous — especially when they’re multitracked, wrapping around each other in layers that feel like voices overheard in a dream, harmonies half-remembered when you wake.
Dust follows the path laid out by the previous track, but sinks deeper into bitterness and melancholy — at times, even gut-wrenching. The lyrics take no prisoners, pulling you in close from the very first lines. Yet as the song unfolds, the music steps away from the edge of fear, letting shafts of hope break through. Beautiful, organic textures bloom, and it’s as if you’ve sailed out of a storm into clear, sunlit waters.
After such a rich, meticulously crafted track, Meant the World arrives stripped back and barebones. Once again, we get that beautiful, glassy solo guitar and warm, gentle acoustic arpeggios. But here the melody is a balm for the soul — soft, tender, and irresistibly hummable, the kind of tune that lingers in your mind long after the song has ended.
Then comes the eponymous track, Caravan — ambient music you didn’t even know was your favorite kind of ambient. Guitar effects bloom and vanish like flowers in a secret garden, textures shift and ripple as if alive, and delicate solos ring out, drifting into the air like smoke or whispered secrets.
Here, Away serves as the perfect closer — just guitar and voice, stripped to their barest bones, carrying a quiet, fragile hope. Across the album, each track feels like a secret orchard full of whispered ghosts and hidden paths. By the final note, you realize you’re not just listening — you’ve been wandering through someone else’s dream, and when you finally wake, the air still hums with echoes you can’t quite place.