There’s not much room for ‘fun’. No room for pom poms and a nihilistic refrain chanted ad nauseum like it’s a game. It’s straight down the line fucked upness, which is appropriate given the album is wedded so tightly to a heart that’s been badly burned.
The London dreamers have borrowed their favourite parts from music’s past to create a headrush of love and mysticism
I know plenty of people who will never, just based on the annoying dipshit band name alone, ever listen to this.
Edgy, like pulling the wings off butterflies.
“I wanted to humanize the computer, show its dynamism. I see myself as an aesthetician of emotionalism. If people see me in my johnnie, maybe they can see all the heart I’m pouring into this machine.”
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.
The 49 Americans were an experiment in the pursuit of happiness.
It seems this experience has totally renewed my enjoyment of all that other Flaming Lips stuff that I play in the daytime
A review of ‘Arc’ by Everything Everything that absolutely takes issue with everything the NME and the Tories stand for
The words come tumbling out of Jonathan Higgs’ mouth like so many bright bees, clouds and clouds of them buzzing about, so numerous and sharp such that their ingenuity, volume and ambition remind me of Joanna Newsom’s meticulous verses. He conjures up drone strikes, billionaires, footballers’ wives, broken war-heroes, landmines, volcanoes, rioters, pterodactyls, post-apocalyptic landscapes, revelatory visions. Not a waistcoat in sight.
Nice to know there’s a deluxe album but it might as well be a complete fucking Smithsonian Library of Recorded Yeah Yeah Yeahs Burps for all it matters to us, as we sure as shit ain’t going to be hearing it any time soon.
Ultimately, this cover is showing that Tyler knows. And he’s grown. Oh, how he’s grown. From chirpy chirpy creep creep to troubled young resentful mogul.
The future of adventurous US music can be found in the hinterlands. Don’t go to them; they’ll come to you.
Couldn’t Be Better is so disinterested in any reality I’ve ever experienced that it’s impossible to connect.
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.
Their music is supermarket fodder, created with precisely the same love and attention to detail as a pack of frozen peas
Is it irresponsible to write an album review without having heard a single note from said album? Maybe. It would probably depend on the album.
It reminds me of someone in a book I once read, describing a heroin high as like floating on a sea of jewels, which scares the hell out of me because it sounds incredible.
Here’s an official video. It’s better than Veronica Falls, I guess.
Go Easy is a radical jukebox. Go Easy is lying in your backyard, stoned in the sun. Go Easy is a top-down ride down a wide avenue with tall palm trees on either side.
Now this is some real grisly shit right here. Forget your Swans, forget your Big Black, forget your Danish bands of dubious intelligence