By Scott Creney I’ve always liked Ty Segall. Never loved him. Never felt my heartbeat increase when he played, never felt my hands shake when he sang, never felt an emotion when I heard his music.
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.
If you want to be immortal, have them play Dirty Three at your funeral.
My immediate reaction was The Three Bs: Boring. Blokey. Beards. But it’s not that simple.