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      Reviews

      April 2, 2013

      By VICE Staff

       

      YEAH YEAH YEAHS
      LEGS
      TYLER, THE CREATOR
      LORD OF THE MICS


      LL COOL J
      Authentic
      S-Bro
      This album was originally supposed to be released in February, right before Valentine’s Day because LL loves VD (both kinds), but now it’s supposed to come out in April… maybe not even. Like most things that are delayed, you can blame the marketing department. It was originally called Authentic Hip-Hop, and its cover art was LL flexing his muscles in front of an American flag. Now the cover is LL making a duck face in his girlfriend’s sweater. There’s already so much going on before you even get to the music, which we didn’t because there isn’t a competent publicist on Earth who would willingly send us this album for review.

      DUCK DUCK
      TYLER, THE CREATOR
      Wolf
      Odd Future/XL
      Kids are so fucking scary now. I’ve always thought that the most terrifying horror and thriller movies are the ones with really stoic, black-eyed kids in formal wear who have no emotions and wait around to slash your ankles or face with found objects. I would literally be afraid to be in the same room as Tyler, the Creator. He looks like he’d peel off a person’s top layer of skin with the very tips of his front teeth and fingernails so that he could later don the victim’s epidermis as a cape onstage while calling your mother a series of very bad names. Which, I think, is exactly what he’s going for, so we can do nothing but encourage it (or die).

      RYAN GOSLING
      VARIOUS ARTISTS
      Lord of the Mics IV
      Self-released
      Have you ever been to a foam party? They always show them in movies. I’d really like to go to a foam party one day. It’d be funny if they happened accidentally, like, if you were at a normal, chill-seeming party or just a bar of some sort, and all of a sudden, an air horn blasted and foam started filling up the room. Wouldn’t you be SO EXCITED? FOAM PARTY 2013, DUDES!

      SEXT DADDY


      THE KNIFE
      Shaking the Habitual
      Mute
      The situation I’m in right now is that of being 14 minutes into the 19-minute track “Old Dreams Waiting to Be Realized,” which is an uncomfortable build of very minimal noises that goes on for what feels like a lifetime and ends without your knowing it because you’ve become a vegetable. And while I very much want to skip to the next song, where hopefully there will be singing and joy and the hope of sunshine, love, and food, I will not. I will not skip. Fans don’t skip. And I’m a fan. I’m the BIGGEST fan. I am Ryan Gosling.

      RYAN GOSLING
      METAL MOTHER
      Ionika
      Post Primal
      Everything about this seems like it should be horrible. Someone from Oakland named Tara Tati named her thing Metal Mother, even though her real name is even weirder. The band gets described in the album’s press release as being a cross between Enya and Nine Inch Nails. The cover also sucks. And yet, this album is 100 percent enjoyable in that “I want to drive a stolen car very fast on an empty stretch of road that skirts a body of water at dusk” sort of way. A good album to put on before or while committing a crime.

      KAYLE MAQLUE
      HANDS
      Synesthesia
      Kill Rock Stars
      So many songs by so many bands sound like they were made for the sole purpose of roller-skating. Does this make sense to you? I mean, it’s nice. Exercising is nice. Every once in a while, it’s nice to just get out there and take some deep fucking breaths. There are a few parts on this particular album where maybe you’ll wanna leap into the air or, like, leap over an obstacle—you know, while riding your skates. Or Rollerblades. Fruit boots. In-line speed skating. Roller derby. Whatever crap you want, as long as you got four wheels or more on each foot.

      INDIAN BUMMER
      FLAMING LIPS
      The Terror
      Warner Brothers
      The neutered jams of bands who should have quit far too long ago spurt out, sounding like the mega-embarrassing Viagra-dad precum that many of us are forced to swallow via satellite radio while shopping for organic vegetables or, sadly, hanging out with our dads. Fortunately for the Flaming Lips, they made a solid album that is so fucking sad (like, in an actual sad way, not like it’s sad that they are still making albums), I will knock the shit out of any relaxed-fit douchebag who makes the mistake of putting this album on in a retail environment.

      BARFAGEDDON
       
      YEAH YEAH YEAHS
      Mosquito
      Universal
      I just finished listening to this for two straight days, and I love it, which brings to mind that age-old saying, “If you don’t have anything shitty to shit on, don’t shitty shit on any shit at all.”

      HEY SALLY
      HEAVY HAWAII
      Goosebumps
      Art Fag
      Pretty much a massive R. Stevie Moore/Ariel Pink rip-off. The vocals are all slowed and pitched down like when someone says “Arreee youuu okaaayyy?” right as you black out, and the first track sounds like being in an MRI while “Earth Angel” is echoing around inside the little tube with you. The whole record is pretty and nightmarish. I love it!

      KLOWN TOWN
      JULIAN LYNCH
      Lines
      Underwater Peoples
      The closest I think I’ve come to death was sophomore year of high school when I smoked pot with this hippie girl I had a huge crush on in her parents’ garden shed, and I got the worst panic attack ever. I had never had a panic attack before and was convinced that the pot was laced with cyanide or anthrax or sherm. I had to lie down on this dirty wooden floor, while my crush babysat me and then never invited me over again. It’s why I don’t smoke weed to this day. But for some reason, I love music that would be great to smoke pot to. This album makes me feel like I’m smoking the best homegrown strain in some Tibetan garden shed in the mountains with Julian, my Sherpa, who’s got a magic carpet tied around his neck and is watching me with his third eye while he strums some ancient stringed instrument, as I blissfully zone out and definitely don’t call my mom to come pick me up.

      TONY BARMAN


      BLEACHED
      Ride Your Heart
      Dead Oceans
      Holy shit, this is what Bleached sounds like!!?!?!!? Oh my God, they are incredible!
      I figured they were just another Californian power-pop thing, but, holy shit, this record makes you feel like the world’s alive with possibility and everywhere’s a party. Who wouldn’t want to be a part of Beatlemania? Yes, I have a beard and am 30 and have a crush on many female rockers, but regardless, this really is a great record.

      NEVERMINDED
      BLACK PUS
      All My Relations
      Thrill Jockey
      Black Pus’s new jam All My Relations channels the ghosts of robotic demons past, escaping their industrial hell. They’re clawing outward and upward, into your backyard with ruthless moves and chops. Swirling oscillator growls gnarl around Brian Chippendale’s patented drum abuse. This is not for casual listening; this is to spur men on the verge of losing everything to take that final plunge. No letting up. Full-on fucking chaos.

      WILLIAM CODY WATSON
      PARAMORE
      S/T
      Fueled By Ramen
      I was so ready to publicly denounce Hayley Williams and her goddamn band, Paramore. In fact, I took this VICE review so that I could finally give an album a Barfy rating because I never really do that. Sad to say, that isn’t going to happen here. Paramore’s fourth album is self-titled, and it should be because it’s probably the first one to accurately represent them as a band. The songs are a bit mainstream enough to sate pop whores, yet there is this dark edge that cuts through. Hayley is giving me Gwen Stefani. She’s giving me Courtney Love. She’s giving me Shirley Manson—but she’s not giving me anything to make fun of. Sucks.

      KATHY IANDOLI
      MUDHONEY
      Vanishing Point
      Sub Pop
      The only good thing about this record is “I Like It Small.” I can’t say for sure that Mark Arm is singing about peens, although he does say, “I don’t need no Magnum.” The best line of the song has to be “And when I orgy, I cap it at 12.” Twelve does seem like the ideal maximum capacity for an orgy. Any larger and you get into World’s Biggest Gangbang territory, and next thing you know, a university student is making a documentary and you learn that some parties in attendance were not tested for STDs, that the film’s star wasn’t paid and suffered severe emotional issues… and suddenly I’m drier than an ancient mummy’s pussy.

      MESSALINA
      BRASS BED
      This Secret Will Keep You
      Crossbill
      This band’s name has a duality because brass beds call to mind childhood movies like Bedknobs and Broomsticks, but they’re also great for tying people to if you are into mildly weird sex stuff. I hear a big Sparks influence here, but this record never gets quite as weird as those fuckers do. The New Yorker have pushed this band a lot, which makes sense because they fall in line with Vampire Weekend—a rock band for college kids who want to feel like they’re sophisticated. But, overall, it’s solid, and if I wanted to pretend to be cool, I would name-drop Brass Bed while also pretending that I know things about wine by saying a certain glass tastes “peaty” and “baroque.”

      NABOOMBU
      WHITE MYSTERY
      Telepathic
      Self-released
      White Mystery is the super-fun ginger-sibling duo band who all good people love and all assholes hate. As a bonus, this record is their best one yet. Tom Scharpling called Miss Alex White, the singer/guitarist, the possible king of rock ’n’ roll, adding that the king of rock can be a lady. They have this awesome blast-beat heavy song called “Jungle Cat,” which features Frances, the massive drummer, on lead vocals. Most of the song is just them yelling “Jungle Cat ROWRRRRRR!” back and forth at each other over and over again. There’s also a song that I think (and hope) they wrote as children that just goes “I am a butthead, you are a butthead, we are buttheads from Mars! AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!” 

      BEAVIS FROM VENUS
      KLEENEX GIRL WONDER
      Let It Buffer
      TWBOS
      This is so nasally. I know white people are called honkies because their nasal voices sound like a goose’s honking squawk (just kidding: “honky” is actually a bastardization of “hunky,” as in “bo-hunk” or Bohemian-Hungarians, but let’s pretend otherwise for fun), but these guys are some mighty goosey honkies. The music is like if They Might Be Giants were trying to be cool instead of embracing the wacky fun side of nerdism. And yet, who doesn’t need a little more whiny whimsy in their lives? Give me two, please!

      WARREN BUFFER
      IGGY AND THE STOOGES
      Ready to Die
      Fat Possum
      Every few years, Iggy Pop makes a new record, and it gets promoted. So he goes and plays shows, and then it’s promptly forgotten. This one’s good but doesn’t break that pattern. A lot of these songs are really fun, but none of them have any sort of progression. Mostly they just begin and then repeat the same thing until the song’s over. Ultimately, this record doesn’t compare favorably with the Stooges’ early records, i.e., the greatest rock records ever made. If I were rude I’d say, yes, they sound ready to die.

      BUTT TOWN
      KINSKI
      Cosy Moments
      Kill Rock Stars
      If the Yeah Yeah Yeahs didn’t have me by the vagina lips, this would have been Album of the Month. Everything about this makes me want to do drunken bar karate and wear all denim (even my underwear). It reminds me of every conversation I’ve ever had with my friends that included the sentence “If I could be a guy for a day, I’d just wanna pop a hot, gentle load on some sweaty, round butt cheeks. You know?”

      KELLY McCLURE
      GENERATIONALS
      Heza
      Polyvinyl
      OK. So, some people think it’s weird that Generationals sold out before they had recorded one subway ride’s worth of music, but I say more power to them. If I went to some bar down a secret alleyway in New Orleans and met some young Cajun prostitute named Claudine, and we had a fleeting, but meaningful, communion of souls in the hot, wet Louisiana night, I would be happy if Generationals were the soundtrack to the merriment of our loins.

      ALEXANDER HOLMES
      LEGS
      Pass the Ringo
      Loglady
      Oh, I see, you named your album Pass the Ringo because you audibly have theeeee BIGGEST boner for the Beatles that it’s so sensitive, even the very most distant glimmer of a bowl cut creates a creamy explosion in the front of your pants, right? I’m thinking that maybe you could have saved a shit ton of money on publicists and whatever else went into making this album, if you’d, instead, invested in a therapist. Or a girlfriend. Or personality lessons. I don’t like you.

      HEY SALLY
      IRON AND WINE
      Ghost on Ghost
      Nonesuch
      I really wanted to dislike this because it would have been really easy, and I’m lazy. But this guy can write a song, goddamnit. Even when the song sounds like a cheesy ABBA cover and his voice appears to have been recorded from the opposite end of a long hallway, it’s still very pleasant and well done. He got himself a good drummer (and a saxophone player!), and the grooves are much stronger than when he was just a bearded professor, playing acoustic guitar by himself in the back of a pickup truck on a dirt road. Just don’t tell anyone I said that, or I won’t be allowed entry at the next Cool Tough Guy Club meeting and steak dinner.

      TONY BARMAN
      JUNIP
      S/T
      Mute
      If you ground up José González’s voice and poured it in a capsule, you’d have a pill with benzodiazepine-like properties that could give you kaleidoscope eyes and the same effects as Viagra. If his solo work is time-release, Junip, which features Elias Araya on drums and Tobias Winterkorn behind the organ, is the rowdier, fast-acting version you can crush between your teeth and swallow.

      PATIENT #00804
      OMD
      English Electric
      BMG/100%
      Have you seen any recent pictures of Molly Ringwald? She has aged surprisingly well. I mean, she’s not the same Molly she was back in her prime, but we still love her for what she was and the memories she evokes, and, yeah, we still want to take her on a date or do something nice for her. Anyway, OMD is like a present-day Molly Ringwald is what I’m saying. It’s the same old shit you’ve always wanted but with a few wrinkles now. Still, I’d hit it, no doubt.

      ALEXANDER HOLMES
      GUIDED BY VOICES
      English Little League
      Fire
      I love the part in A Charlie Brown Christmas when Schroeder is trying to play “Jingle Bells” on his piano for Lucy, and she’s like, “Nein, nein. Ich meine, ‘Jingle Bells.’ Sie wissen, ‘Deck the Halls,’ und so weiter. Sie verstehen gar nicht.” It’s so damn funny because they are all the same (obviously), but she prefers the stripped-down, no-frills version, which, yeah, is the best. And it’s somewhat ironic because Lucy, like most of the other Peanuts characters, is informed by the status quo: the more money you have, and things you can buy at Christmas, the better. Her love for the atonal, minimal version of “Jingle Bells,” however, casts her in a Marxist light and, I think, reinforces how much of a pussy Charlie Brown is. Anyway, that’s what this album made me think of.

      DREAD MORTIMER
      AKRON/FAMILY
      Sub Verses
      Dead Oceans
      Learning: it’s part of life, and we learn totally rad stuff all the time. In 2006 or thereabouts, I learned some valuable lessons about Gmail and having ’tard sex with people who are maybe a little bit younger than me. Some sorry sack of youthful shit thought I would want to have more dumb, shitty sex if Akron/Family’s “I’ll Be On the Water” appeared as a goddamned MP3 in my Gmail inbox ’cause, hello, the future, you can email pansy-ass songs to bitches you wanna fuck on your broke-ass futon. And now, years later, I am DUMB PSYCHED that Akron/Family has finally learned who this hot new underground act Grizzly Bear is. Thank you, Akron/Family, for teaching me that I shouldn’t have futon sex with young retards and for bringing the fantastically fresh sounds of this Grizzly Bear band to a wider audience. Way to spread the love, bros. LEARNING!!!!!

      BARFAGEDDON
      THE POSTAL SERVICE
      Give Up (Deluxe 10th Anniversary Edition)
      Sub Pop
      Somewhere in the hyperdistant future, after civilization as we know it has long been erased from the pages of time, after an eons-long ice age has thawed, a new, vibrant society, governed by cognizant, trans-aquatic creatures, will be delighted with a gift for their senses. One day, on a journey into the rocky hills, one of these fish people, a common villager, will discover a shimmering disc tucked in the rib bones of a fossilized megalizard. Fueled by an obsessive thirst for knowledge, the he-fish will attempt to retrieve the information from the disc. Much time will pass. The he-fish will die, but his work will be continued by his offspring and, eventually, his offspring’s offspring. Finally, before a massive congregation of trans-aquatic land creatures from all sects and classes, the information on the disc will be retrieved and revealed much to the delight of almost everyone, even a lot of trans-aquatic land creatures who you wouldn’t normally expect to be into that sort of thing.

      NOOB SAIBOT

      THE 49 AMERICANS
      We Know Nonsense
      Staubgold
      You know what s funny? That if you re listening to a 40-track album of pure insanity and random noises, nine out of ten times it s probably made in the UK. I guess if my teeth were rotting out of my head and beans on bread was a normal part of my daily diet, I d probably unwind by banging pots and pans while blowing on a slide whistle for a few hours too. If you like headaches that hurt so bad they make you laugh, you ll love this. I don t.

      BLOWINSTEIN
      BOMBINO
      Nomad
      Nonesuch
      Most days I hate the human race so much that I sit at my desk fantasizing about making enough money to disappear. The cruel fact of this world is that it costs a lot of money to fall off the face of it. But I still hold out hope that in the future, I will do something that rakes in enough cash for me to hightail it to the farthest stretch of isolated woods I can find, set up a weird cabin made of sticks and tampon strings, listen to this album, and never, ever waste another second trying to come up with the best and most indelible way to tell everyone to eat shit with a wet wooden spoon.

      HEY SALLY

       

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