skip to content
Rodeo Reverb Records
🌵 Persona Spotlight

Mariachi Sleepover

Desert ghosts, dream pop, and cheap motel philosophy. Music for the liminal glow between midnight reruns and Las Vegas Strip neon.

The Borderland Broadcast

If you’ve ever fallen asleep with the TV still glowing after midnight—half-dreaming, half-remembering—you’ve already heard Mariachi Sleepover. Born somewhere between the border radio static and a broken jukebox in 1995, the project makes music for the echo chambers of nostalgia. It’s post-grunge for the sentimental. Desert-psych for the emotionally overcaffeinated. A lo-fi hymn for people who still believe mixtapes could fix things.

Each record is a postcard from another state of mind—love letters to faded summers, VHS ghosts, and the strange warmth of loneliness. You’ll find brass sections that sound like mariachi bands playing underwater, drum machines that learned heartbreak, and harmonies that hit like desert wind through motel blinds.

Latest Release

The Way Out Is In

Mariachi Sleepover turn anxiety into fuzz-soaked anthems, proving the only escape from panic is through it, preferably with mariachi horns and a distortion pedal turned to 11.

Press play for fuzz-soaked guitars that shimmer and fracture, mariachi brass cutting through analog haze, and tape compression pushing into the red. Mariachi Sleepover thrives in the space between panic and acceptance, turning claustrophobia into catharsis—proving the only way out is through, preferably with reverb-soaked mantras and a distortion pedal turned to 11.

"Greatest Hits," "Can't Major in Reverb," "Bent Light After Midnight," "The Way Out Is In."

Pull up a cracked vinyl armchair, turn the reverb up too high, and let the anxious beauty hum you toward clarity. This isn't a band. It's survival disguised as a groove and a riff.

Discography

Stay for the night

Each Mariachi Sleepover tape unfurls like motel wallpaper—sun-faded, cigarette-scented, and still somehow welcoming. Every chorus is a cracked-open window letting the desert night in. You can hear the ghosts of road trips past, the promises scribbled on postcard backs, the way a payphone call echoes when nobody answers.

Follow the trail if you crave late-night philosophy whispered over humming amps and border-town radio static. The way out is always in.