Staff Picks and Good Shit for the Week of January 23

It was hard to top last week’s televised reading of “tity boi” and “dick poop” but this week brought us Ballghazi, which is almost too easy. Ball jokes? Come on, guys. Grow up. Or work for Vice Sports. They probably think Tom Brady talking about his deflated balls is hilarious. Anyway, what were we talking about? Oh right, titty bois. Here’s what we were all listening to this week…

The debut from Future Brown is out next month, and it's fucking awesome. (This is the part where I flex my Music Insider muscle and say I've been listening to it for a few months.) The electronic artists have a bunch of great musicians jump on tracks for this record, but in particular Tink's spitting on "Room 302"—which the group released to all you normal people a couple weeks ago—sets the tone for the album. It's slick and kind of sounds like something you'd hear in a really cool boutique in Soho. I realize that sounds a bit like a diss, but I genuinely mean that as awesome. This is music that makes you feel important, and all the haters ain't got shit on your swag: "You been going steady with the girl of your dreams / but the girl in your bed ain't shit like me."

Eric Sundermann, Managing Editor
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I actually meant to write about this mix last year but, you know, Christmas, so I decided to revisit it this week on flight back from LA. Glass Gang are based in BK and I wrote about them about 12 years ago (back in 2013) when they dropped the cryptic video for "Time." Back then I described them as "narcotized My Bloody Valentine strung out in space." Since then they've been heading down a garden path that's lined with glitch and crackling fuzz. As befits their new-ish swerve, this mixtape blends Jon Hopkins, Jamie XX, Sophie, and Yung Thug among others. I'm a fan of anyone who throws in that Artful Dodger and Craig David classic. Pitch-shifted to fuck, of course.

Kim Taylor Bennett, Style Editor
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It is 7:30 in the morning in Los Angeles. In about four minutes, an Uber will be arriving to take me to Los Angeles International Airport, where a plane will take me to Las Vegas, where I'll be spending the weekend at the AVN Awards. If you don't know, the AVNs are basically the Oscars of porn. It's going to be weird as fuck. I needed something squeaky clean in my life, and this new Paris Hilton trance song is exactly what the doctor ordered.

Drew Millard, Features Editor
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People keep asking me about my thoughts on the new Lupe Fiasco album for some reason. Maybe it's because of my impeccable taste in real rap bars, or maybe it's because I went and got lyrics from "Hurt Me Soul" tattooed on my arm and then wrote about it like an idiot. In either case, get out of my mentions because here comes the fix for all you hot-take fiends: the new album isn't bad. Sorry, I wish I could give you more, but we're dealing with Lupe Fiasco. This is a guy who has spent the last five years gradually stomping the bar lower and lower by releasing shitty albums. Now he's managed to step over this, essentially ground-level, bar, and released an album that's solid, but would likely be received otherwise if it came out three albums ago. Then again, it's hard to judge a new album from someone as complicated as Lupe off a few dozen plays. The geniuses at RapGenius pointed out that each line of the hook of "Adoration of the Magi" is a double-entendre that plays on famous album covers with babies on them, like Nirvana, Nas, Biggie, and Lil' Wayne. These sort of winks and nods likely litter the album, and coupled with the message hidden in the album art (which Lupe painted himself, because he's a real artist) there's probably enough fodder for tin foil rap geniuses to pour over for months. The question is, do people still care about what Lupe has to say enough to look past the fact that Lupe is the one saying it?

Slava Pastuk, Noisey Canada editor

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This band is the aural equivalent of one of those pissing Calvin truck decals, only this particular version of the tiger-loving scamp is hopped up on cheap speed, sporting a mangy patch jacket and filthy bum-flap. Spiteful Urinator is a young and thoroughly immature bunch of metalpunk lunkheads from New Zealand who cobble together crusty d-beat and lo-fi, primitive black metal on their irresistibly scuzzy new-ish LP, Work Crimes. Predictably enough, I can't stop listening to it—it's so grimy that I feel like I need another shower every time I press play, but you just cannot fuck with their bass wallop, gleefully shitty attitude, ridiculous samples, and stealth solos. The lyrics for basement banger "The Mayor" sum up Spiteful Urinator beautifully, especially this illuminating couplet: "I can't play a guitar solo without sucking /I've never listened to Manowar while fucking." Shine on, you crazy diamonds.

Kim Kelly, Contributing Editor
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I tried to get into that new Björk album this week, I did. I triiiiiiied. I don’t dislike Björk. It’s just hard to get excited about her new album since you could probably just take one of her old albums and play it backwards and it’d sound new. So I stuck with my habits of appeasing my hunger for guitar rock, which I hear is back in style.

Dan Ozzi, Editor
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I'm going to Fleetwood Mac this week, luckily it's my second time around (the first was during their mega reunion in the 90s). They have so many jams over the years that they're bound to neglect a bunch of them but according to set lists on this tour, the one that's gonna hurt the most is "Sara." Literally, one of the top ten favorites of all Fleetwood Mac jams. Whatever.

Fred Pessaro, Editor-in-Chief
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Some questions are eternal: What is the meaning of life? Why are we here? Why is it so hard for me to get anywhere on time? I won't say "why can't I cry money instead of tears?" is quite on that level since there is always the chance that our society will evolve to reject capitalism and the very concept of money, but, until then, add this question to the list. I saw Father and his Awful Records pals tear down their show at Baby's All RIght in Brooklyn last night, and it was one of the most fun concerts I've been to in a while. I don't know how it's possible to make the vibe of a million dudes on stage losing their shit to a song fresh, but somehow they did it. All praise to Awful Records. When I'm sitting around and crying this weekend, like I do every weekend, I'll be thinking of you guys and wishing I was rich.

Kyle Kramer, Editor
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