Pale Green Ghosts is an album as diverse and hilarious, as dying and alive, as life itself. What more could you ask for? Prior approval? Grow up. The music world is a lot bigger than Pitchfork, and there are far more interesting journeys to go on than the path from a publicist’s e-mail to a writer’s inbox.
Angela Carter crossed with the newspaper, myth and reality intertwined in a tragic dance. That’s CocoRosie right there.
The human brain is pretty much hard-wired on an evolutionary level to romanticize the past. It’s a survival mechanism, one of those things that keeps us going forward into the scary future. Our brain tends to ration out traumatic memories strictly on a need-to-know basis.
Re-Mit isn’t a breakthrough by anyone’s standards, but it’s something. It’s another book in the bible of The Fall.
This is much more than a band; this is a lesson in how to be human.
I know plenty of people who will never, just based on the annoying dipshit band name alone, ever listen to this.
Beaches have chosen to exist as a small, heavily populated planet in a universe of infinite possibilities and sounds. And that is never a cause for celebration.
Man, that band name’s a fucking misnomer, isn’t it?
It starts out in the world of Sonic Youth — a tinny, anemic charming version of SY — before shooting off in the direction of Sun City Girls, Minutemen rants with Pere Ubu paranoia
I don’t like praising records for their focus and consistency — makes me feel like I’m in a corporate boardroom or something.
Chrissy Amphlett, lead singer of Divinyls, died this past Sunday. She was 53. Most musicians are lucky if they ever release a record, much less make the charts, never mind change the world. Ms. Amphlett, who left home at 14, accomplished all three.
The 49 Americans were an experiment in the pursuit of happiness.
It costs the same as 3 issues of Mojo, or 6 weeks’ worth of NME’s, and it’s a dozen times more likely to change your life.
The future of adventurous US music can be found in the hinterlands. Don’t go to them; they’ll come to you.
Imagine a German Dirty Three. Of if you’re feeling cynical, imagine a 10-year-old boy pretending to be a monster, stomping all over Tokyo in a nuclear-induced haze.
Here’s an official video. It’s better than Veronica Falls, I guess.
Now this is some real grisly shit right here. Forget your Swans, forget your Big Black, forget your Danish bands of dubious intelligence
I’m a sucker for thinned-out drum machine percussion and keyboard lines that sound like old classroom films from my youth
The only thing worse than a band deliberately putting violent/racist/fascist imagery out there is a writer like myself taking exception to it.
The way The Smiths once covered their sleeves in 60s references, the way Wu-Tang Clan embraced the language and iconography of Shaolin, the way Oasis loved The Beatles, that’s the relationship Iceage has with xenophobia and white supremacy — it may not be the window, but it’s damn sure the drapes.
It’s too demented and gleeful to be offensive. It’s barely of this planet and doesn’t have a mean bone in its body.
best listened to three minutes at a time. Like a bag of decades-old Smarties, an entire 36 minutes of consumption is guaranteed to sicken.
Maybe this has only been a clearing of the throat, a shaking off of the cobwebs, a necessary step into the harsh daylight of everyday existence. Maybe there is more to come.
The new Foxygen album is best appreciated if you empty yourself of all personality and worries before listening to it. This is not a record to be approached if you have a loved one in the hospital or are faced with encroaching debt or ephemeral darkness.