Picture yourself at an Ivy League prep school circa 1979. No, not Amherst, that shit doesn’t count. Think at least Princeton or Yale. You’re sitting bored in the back row of a classroom full of pricks with half-grown mustaches, the kind of guys who play croquet and have been smug since they were nine. While professor Pearson drones on about Khrushchev, you daydream about being back in La Jolla, letting the hot sand warm your ass after a good surf. The rangiest, bronzest, tawniest girl from your old high school is lying next to you. No--better yet--it’s Pearson’s wife, who can’t be more than twenty-three and who taunts you unconsciously every afternoon when she walks in to drop off the old goat’s lunch. So, right, Pearson’s wife, and she’s topless, this being 1979 and your own damn fantasy, but anyway.... If this were your life, a) you’d probably hate yourself for being a Child of Privilege, but b) you wouldn’t for three seconds consider giving it all up, because how the hell else would you afford those summer trips to the islands, and c) you’d probably be wearing Trovata. Trovata, a four-year old label that was launched out of John Whitledge’s dorm room at Claremont McKenna, is an artful blend; equal parts vintage West Coast summer stories and aristocratic, old money arrogance. Think teenage Jay Adams meets a J.D. Salinger bully. It’s more or less about roadtown nostalgia, sugar cane deckhands, juvenescent tin-roof romance, sun-bleached luxury, cricket whites, and second-hand cottons on the floor of the daughter’s quarters.

Learn more about Trovata at: www.trovata.com