The New LoFi

Nashville’s shape-shifting trio, Shrunken Elvis, bend space, time, and genre on their self-titled debut

Some bands form out of necessity. Others out of chance. And then there are groups like Shrunken Elvis—a Nashville-based trio born from long European drives, cold winter jam sessions, and a shared obsession with breaking down genre walls.

The project brings together three seasoned players: Spencer Cullum, a London-born pedal steel wizard, Sean Thompson, a Nashville native who cut his teeth in the DIY scene, and Michael “Rich” Ruth, who’s carved out a reputation with his expansive Third Man Records releases—spiritual jazz and synth-heavy post-rock that feels equal parts meditative and cinematic.

On paper, that lineup reads eclectic. In practice, it’s seamless. Together, the trio steps outside Nashville’s country traditions and into a sonic landscape where pedal steel drones can bleed into celestial-style synths. Their music is instinct over ambition, collaboration over ego.

That philosophy comes alive on their upcoming self-titled debut, out September 5th via Western Vinyl. The record was mixed by Jake Davis (William Tyler) and features cover art from UK psych-folk artist Max Kinghorn-Mills (Hollow Hand). Their first single, “An Old Outlet”, is a perfect introduction: a slow-building track that pulses at the crossroads of krautrock repetition, ECM-style spaciousness, and dreamlike ambience.

Recording the new album wasn’t about spotlight solos or polished arrangements. Instead, the band leaned into the immediacy of their live interplay. Two guitars, pedal steel, synths—kept raw and uncluttered, the kind of setup that lets ideas breathe. The result feels organic, as if the songs wrote themselves while the trio acted more as conduits than composers.

The roots of this chemistry trace back to 2022, when the three toured Europe behind Cullum’s solo record. Packed into a VW Passat across Germany, Belgium, Denmark, the UK, and Ireland, they passed time trading records, sketching ideas, and letting conversations spill into sound. By the time winter hit Nashville, those sketches had evolved into full-on sessions in a shed studio—fire heater on, tape rolling, no fixed plan except to let music happen.

It’s the kind of record that reminds you why music matters—not because it follows rules, but because it dares to exist outside of them.