Cigarettes After Sex have built an unusually durable musical identity from restraint. Where many bands chase atmosphere through accumulation, Greg Gonzalez and his collaborators have made intimacy itself their primary instrument, favoring hushed vocals, languid tempos, soft-focus guitars, and arrangements that seem to hover at the edge of consciousness. “Twizzler” is fascinating precisely because it nudges that formula toward daylight. It is recognizably Cigarettes After Sex, but it carries a lift that is rare in their catalog: the pulse is quicker, the colors are warmer, and the romantic imagery has a playful glint that makes the song feel almst carefree. Almost.
That distinction matters. “Twizzler” does not represent a wholesale reinvention, nor does it abandon the sensual melancholy that has made the band so recognizable. Instead, it reveals how much elasticity exists within their established language. Gonzalez sings in his familiar near-whisper, a voice that seems to reach the listener from somewhere just beyond the immediate room, but the instrumentation around him is more buoyant. Randall Miller’s bass gives the song an easy forward motion, Jacob Tomsky’s drumming adds a subtle spring to the rhythm, and Jeff Kite’s keyboards provide a soft cinematic glow. Gonzalez’s electric and acoustic guitars supply the connective tissue, keeping the song grounded even as the arrangement seems to float.
Gonzalez has always understood that desire becomes more persuasive when it is expressed through small physical details rather than sweeping declarations. “Twizzler” continues that practice while allowing humor and sweetness into the frame. The candy itself is an inspired object: cheap, bright, sticky, faintly ridiculous, and undeniably intimate when two people are sharing it. Placing such an ordinary object inside the band’s dreamlike aesthetic keeps the romance from becoming overly polished. The song knows that erotic memory is not composed exclusively of beautiful faces and perfect lighting. Sometimes it is a piece of candy, a street after dark, a hotel, a necklace, a half-heard sentence.
The song’s unusual buoyancy becomes more effective because Cigarettes After Sex do not overplay it. A less disciplined band might have responded to the desire for an upbeat track by adding bigger drums, brighter guitars, or an obvious chorus designed to announce a new direction. “Twizzler” does nothing so conspicuous. Its shift in energy is incremental. The architecture remains sparse enough for Gonzalez’s voice to occupy the emotional foreground, yet the instrumental bed has enough movement to prevent the song from settling into the familiar lethargy associated with the band’s slower material.
The band’s chemistry is essential to that balance. Miller’s bass does much of the understated emotional work, giving the song a supple foundation without calling attention to itself. Tomsky provides the rhythmic architecture, resisting the temptation to make the track sound dramatically more energetic than it is. Kite’s keyboards expand the atmosphere without crowding the guitars. Gonzalez, meanwhile, handles vocals and both electric and acoustic guitar, allowing the arrangement to retain the sense of personal authorship that has always been central to Cigarettes After Sex. The musicians do not compete for the spotlight; they create an environment in which the smallest gestures can register.
“Twizzler” also benefits from its status as a standalone single. Freed from the narrative expectations of an album, it can function as a concentrated expression of a particular emotional state. It does not need to explain the past or establish a future. It captures a moment when attraction, place, memory, and physical sensation happen to align. That concentration makes the song feel cinematic without requiring cinematic excess.
Perhaps the most appealing thing about “Twizzler” is that it allows Cigarettes After Sex to sound happy without becoming unfamiliar. The band has spent years refining a vocabulary of nocturnal romance, but this song finds a different hour within that vocabulary. The night is still present, yet there is more motion in it. The shadows have not disappeared; they simply surround something brighter. For a band whose music has become synonymous with languor, such a modest adjustment carries surprising significance. “Twizzler” suggests that Cigarettes After Sex do not need to abandon their established atmosphere to discover new emotional territory. They only need to change the light. Gonzalez, Miller, Tomsky, and Kite understand that the most convincing romantic songs rarely require grand gestures.
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