Somewhere between the twilight daze of a dying beach town and the first trembling notes of a steel-string guitar, there exists a band not born—but summoned. Nero Simon and the Sunsetters didn’t just form; they washed ashore, reeking of rum, haunted by the ghosts of ’70s yacht rock and the sun-drunk optimism of a lost American summer. Their music feels like a fever dream stitched from the remnants of AM radio gold and the salt-stained pages of a sailor’s diary—if the sailor also kept notes on which beach bars served the strongest piña coladas.