In literature, "synaesthesia" is used to describe a certain type of metaphor, employing a descriptive term usually used for one sense to describe an experience associated with another, like calling something visually boring "quiet." It's also a neurological condition in which people associate words with colors.
Music critics tend to use synaesthesia all the time: The guitars are sparkly, the melodies smooth, etc. So when a New York City pop band called the Mood releases a record named Synaesthesia, it's an invitation to go a little overboard: You could say their music is warm, and that the colors it invokes are lush greens and rich oranges--all synaesthesic ways of saying that the Mood plays the kind of '60s pop-rock that combines crunchy guitars and delicious hooks with creamy-smooth vocals. See, the synaesthesia thing is really hard to avoid: The Mood are not peanut butter. But if the Mood were peanut butter, they'd be really good peanut butter, or maybe a candy bar with peanut butter in it.
At only six songs, Synaesthesia leaves you craving more--it peaks 10 minutes in at "Eskimo Scientist," with its glockenspiel accents and gleeful everything. Vocalist and multi-instrumentalist Corinne Callen takes over lead singing duties from her cousin (and the Mood headman) Marco Argiro on "Suddenly," and only one song with her seductive voice isn't nearly enough. The Mood could easily sustain their pop sweetness for another six songs--although the synaesthesia that could pile up while describing another six songs might do you in.