TY SEGALL BAND
Every El-P review I have ever read contains awk music journalist phrases like "luminous verbosity", "lyrical density" or "distorted melody lines".
This is the first one to say: "FUCKING AWESOME!"
The Stoned Immaculate
I had a friend in high school who used to love hood-acting white girls. I’ve always thought this shtick was kind of corny, but I’ve never been one to get off on fake crap like knock-off Jordans or steel cuban-linx chains. That said, Iggy’s forced me to reconsider my position given that my corpora cavernosa becomes engorged with lustful blood every time this broad barks “pussy” in her Australian accent, or explicitly references her apparently super-tight red snapper with her phony-ass wrong-side-of-the-tracks inflection. Maybe my homie back in high school had the right idea after all, or at least my boner thinks so.
WILBERT L. COOPER
This guy writes music at the same rate John Grisham plops out shitty novels about lawyers, except Curren$y’s a wayyyyy better writer. If Curren$y was an author, the main plot points of his books would be weed, hanging out on the beach wearing expensive but dumb-looking hats, and solving mysteries (like who “stole” said hats that he lost while stoned on the beach). I’d read them, for sure.
This is one of the best synth punk records I’ve ever heard. It reminds me of older bands with better keyboards but doesn’t feel like the kind of record where you hear it and go, “Oh, he’s just doing some new wave electronic rock thing that is about as interesting as gonorrhea.” Long story short: If you’re into the Drive soundtrack then you kinda have to get this record so you can mix it up when the person you’re fucking gets tired of Gary Numan and Devo. (By the way, don’t fuck to Devo. It’s weird.)
This is the kind of thing you listen to in the summertime while sitting on a plastic-covered couch in your Grandma’s house with a girl you’re trying to feel up, and both of you are sipping on some lemonade from sweaty plastic McDonald’s cups that were part of some really old Disney-movie campaign. Know what I’m saying?
WILBERT L. COOPER
A Fire To Keep
When you’ve literally masturbated to a singer’s picture more than twice, you better just go ahead and give whatever they put out a shiny thumbs up.
This record sounds exactly like the Echo & the Bunnymen album of the same name. Like, Crocodiles was all, “Gentlemen, let’s make a sequel to
. The people have waited long enough.” At least that’s what I thought until I realized that iTunes was actually playing Echo & the Bunnymen’s
instead of Crocodiles’
. But you know what? They’re both good.
Black Bell Records
As I listened to this record for the first time, I stared at the cover art and at first I was like, “Look at that deer. Oh man, that’s a majestic-ass eagle.” Then I realized that this music is for bears. You know about bears? Not the animal. I’m talking about those sweaty fat men who like to rub their penises against chest hair? Whatever. It’s 2012. I can listen to hairy chest dick music all I want. I can even listen to hairy asshole music if the mood strikes me. I’m an adult. Deal with it.
Knowing my penchant for chiming, guitary British-sounding stuff with fog-drenched dream-singing, a friend of mine snidely predicted that I’d give this album a real Kimberly-Kane-level blowjob in the reviews. But it’s pretty hard to suck a guy’s dick when it’s already hilt deep in your ass.
The title of this perfectly perfect record is pronounced “wishyou” as in “I WIXIW could live inside this album,” or “I WIXIW guys would do this more often,” or maybe even “I WIXIW would tell me what drugs IW took and where IW get them.” Seriously, this thing plays like a soundtrack to
The Magic School Bus
book where the kids take a bunch of ludes and drive the bus into the ear of a guy who put himself into a Robitussin coma. Then, the battery on the bus dies and the kids have to find their own way out. Spoiler: They do not make it.
I see what you’ve done here, Diamond Rugs. You made the soundtrack to
. Nice job. I can’t wait for the sequel,
This is How to Not be a Boring Pussy
The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars (40th Anniversary Edition)
Forty years after it was recorded this red-mulleted motherfucker still spreads ’em wide and fucks every other album we’ve reviewed this month, this year, and this decade right in the ol’ petunia without lube. I’m just going to stop typing and email Kelly (the music editor, duh) a picture of my O face.
SOPHIE SAINT THOMAS
When I was younger I spent a lot of time pullin’ e-brakes and smoking Marb Reds in my Honda Accord. I did everything in that car, man. The best time was when my friend Nicole and I decided to eff with the jerkoff cool kids in the senior class (who are now obese or on their third round of rehab). We pulled up as close as we could to a party they were throwing in the middle of the woods, killed the lights and engine, played a cassette tape of my family meowing like cats over the speakers (my family rules), lit off a flare, and shined a million candlepower flashlight into the woods. Everyone peeled out, leaving behind a smoldering fire and dozens of Budweiser cans that Nicole and I briefly explored before going back to my house to watch TV. This Hives album is pretty fun too, especially the fat guy.
Metric has always sounded to me like Evanescence funneled through an electronic indie juicer.
feels especially like the decay of an internal crisis, like what you’d blast in your car parked outside a Del Taco before you floored it through the glass door. Also, the name of the album makes me think of Elastica, who were much better than Metric but man have you seen Justine Frischmann lately? Talk about putting down the spoon and picking up the fork. Sheesh.
NOT BLOOD, PAINT
If there’s any band that can make me want to do a striptease, participate in a sacrificial ritual, and join a gospel choir in the span of a single album, it’s Not Blood, Paint. This band terrifies me. I saw them live once and I thought I was getting initiated into some crazy cult (the band name was a comforting clarification, though, especially when I saw all four band members dripping in red liquid). The recorded version doesn’t do that cult-joining feeling justice, but it’s close enough.
While recently going through old boxes I came across one of The Walkmen posters from the
You & Me
album, and was flooded with remembrance of what a solid, great band they are. That instance kind of represents The Walkmen presence in a nutshell: in and out of the public eye over the last decade but somehow always sounding like a strong memory. Wait, did I just write a poem? No wonder people tell me I’m gay all the time.
Secret Prostitutes are a punk band from Texas with a drummer who is also the singer, which he does exclusively in Indonesian. They share members with that band The Energy and sound pretty similar. Up until now it’s been pretty hard to buy their music since they only put out a few hyper limited 7"s and a full-length called
Nevermind the KBD, This is ADD
where each copy had a custom cover. This collects all their recorded material up until this point and some live tracks. By giving their CD an unpronounceable title they’ll probably manage to stay a few steps ahead of anyone ever knowing who they are.
Wait, this is Japandroids? Dudebros, what happened? Why doesn’t this sound like it was recorded in a tin can? Why are there verses and choruses and other stuff on this? Imagine an alternative reality where Thin Lizzy was bestowed with the honor of best band ever, and you didn’t have to go to Wikipedia to find any other cool people from Canada besides Drake (who, really, is a “goofnugget R&B dude” like that tattooer guy said). This is music you put on after you chug a bunch of bottom-shelf whisky and decide to crash your car into your ex’s apartment.
Yes, I am aware that Lita Ford was in The Runaways and will therefore be vaguely punk forever. Yes, I respect Lita’s guitar playing, mainly in the same way I respect really good chess players, or people with a proclivity for making bongs out of household objects. And yes, I have heard “Kiss Me Deadly,” which is totally awesome in the way that all good 80s hair metal songs are totally awesome. None of that stuff, however, changes the fact that
Living Like a Runaway
is about as edgy as playing Jenga after drinking two Jamba Juices, and four times as stupid. Imagine mixing up the worst parts of Heart, Filter, Counting Crows, and anything Poison has ever released, throw it into an Easy-Bake oven, served undercooked with an extra helping of sterility and garnished with a low-level natural disaster. Lita Ford, I respect you as an icon and a human being, but your album sucks.
Now that King Buzzo offers video tutorials for the guitar tabs of Melvins songs on YouTube, you can make your own Melvins Lite music at home! All you need are these simple tools: two clean white dishcloths, a love for Wings, Dr. Lovely’s Feel It Hair Relaxer, and about three decades of musical nerd strength that YOU WILL NEVER HAVE. When a band consistently makes good music for 30 years, there’s not really anything new you can say about them. It’s like attempting to explain to a stranger how special your grandma’s cookies were. They’re fucking cookies. Just eat them and shut up.
It’s been two years since the reclusive Nice Face put out the amazing
. That record was at the height of the lo-fi-home-recording-noise thing, and it was a stand-out. In general it seemed like people who were doing that have cut down on the echoes and flangers and split off in varying directions. Nice Face is still using synth, guitar, yelling, and echo effects but it’s a lot tamer now. It’s still good but now it’s a little more like Warm Leatherette than The Spits.
This sounds so much like the Nervous Breakdown 7" in terms of songwriting style and the texture of the recording that it feels like this record came from an alternate reality where Keith Morris remained the singer of Black Flag forever. Nothing new or groundbreaking here, but I hate new and groundbreaking as much as I hate people who strive to be cool. I just want records that sound like this, and people who are so uncool they’re actually cool like Keith and Co. here. Seriously, fuck cool people. Especially the ones in LA.
TY SEGALL BAND
In The Red
Oh my graciousness, how does Ty Segall put out so many records? Meth? Maybe, but I’m just going to believe it’s awesomeness. This is the second of the three records that Ty announced he’d release in 2012. The first was the one he made with White Fence. The third is a solo one. He made this one with his touring band, which includes Mikal Cronin (who made one of the best records of 2011, so deal with it). There’s a definite difference between the energy on this record and Ty Segall’s solo stuff. This is way louder and faster, and Ty’s yelling as loud as he can just to be heard over the music. The title track especially reminds me of “Mr. Moustache” by Nirvana. That is all.
MAN ON EARTH
OK, so if the movie
had the same beginning but then morphed into a totally precious Scandinavian rom-com (is Scandinavian rom-com a Netflix genre?) involving Nicholas Sparks instead of inbred sodomy and a horrifying battle for survival, the dude with the banjo would be playing this shit. Trivia fact: Contrary to popular belief, The Tallest Man on Earth is of disappointingly normal height. He also looks like my roommate’s friend, Eugen (pronounced oy-gun) who I’m trying to convince to change his last name to Nguyễn.
This album is as close as you will get to nirvana, a feeling I have only come close to after staying up for 31 hours straight and started to see possums and stuff jump out of my floorboards. All of these songs are over six minutes long except for the intro and outro, and they all sound like how it feels to have sex on acid. I give
five Orgasm Possums out five with a screaming lemur on top.
Arts & Crafts
Besides naming their band something that causes my hand to involuntarily ball up into a fist and punch whatever is two feet in front of me, Zulu Winter also went ahead and literally perfected the sub-Coldplay wuss rock that grown men with jawline-trimmed beards and Teva collections crave. Congrats, twerps, you are the musical equivalent of a guy profusely apologizing to a girl for prematurely ejaculating.
Two Adult Women
You’d have to be an idiot asshole from hell to not love Team Dresch, but lesbians are just so much more fun when they’re screaming and yelling and playing sick guitar. Unfortunately, Kaia Wilson’s solo stuff has way too many emotions, and that’s just gross. Like finding a tampon in a girl’s vagina a week after her period with your tongue. I also suspect that she just sat down with a guitar and made up these lyrics as she went along, knowing full well that her fan base would buy into it regardless, and that’s cheating.
I like To Keep
Myself In Pain
I read this press release incorrectly and listened to the first five songs thinking,
Hulk Hogan’s daughter is a lot better than I thought she would be, for a pop country artist, that is
. Then I realized this was Kelly Hogan, not Brooke. I don’t know if they’re related, but I bet they can both execute a perfect Atomic Leg Drop. A bunch of great people wrote Kelly songs for this album, and it’s painfully obvious other people wrote this stuff, because Kelly repeatedly tosses good material on the ground, stomps on it, and cakes it with an even layer of the most adorable urine you have ever imagined. The best part is she says “France” like the crazy mom from
Better Off Dead
. Way to turn your debut record into a crappy lounge-cover album.
You know how having a hardcore make-out session or masturbating too much can make your period start early? Listening to this album had the reverse effect. My vagina lips dried up like old rose petals, and I have -37 eggs left now.
The beginning of this EP sounds just like Joy Division and makes you go “ALL RIGHT!” But then you come to your senses and realize that it can’t be a new Joy Division album because that guy’s dead as shit, and this is just some more bric-a-brac that you were tricked into listening to for a few precious seconds of life. LIFE! YOUR LIFE! YOU’RE ALIVE!!!!!
Ruler of the Night
If you took Nick Cave and Okkervil River, treated them to a night of heavy drinking under the pretense that they DIDN’T have to perform the next day, then woke them up in the morning by banging empty beer cans in their face and saying that you had lied, they’re actually booked for a full day in the studio and they have to leave right then and can’t even get breakfast or wash their face first or anything, this is what the tracks they recorded that day would sound like. In other words, liquefied dogshit.