These kids have more *distilled* Americana & Folk in their little fingers, in the subtle nuance and meta-fucking-layering hiding behind faux-softiness and 'easy-listening' in any of their songs than THOSE fuckers (yeah, say it again, out loud, you know you want to: THOSE fuckinnng Ffuhckerrs) who think that a couple of necessary beards , a dashing of plaid, perhaps a banjo, and oh, christ, jesus: one lone miserable & distraught cunty-faced little girl with a tambourine & oh, god, if we're feeling uppity, perhaps a stand-up drummer, with flourishes yeah...
and, yes, children, this all adds up to Folk. You've got it. Well fucking done. You're godamn Americana. No. Wait. But then you get to play with one of the members of The Band - if you, reader, care you know which one, if you're alive and into music you know which fucken song - yeah, you're - and I mean THEM - folk. Go kill yourselves.
Wait. Go write a note saying how sorry you are, then do it. Jump off something high... fall screaming... and then holy shit, Superman swoops you up... and you smile, saved... and then he let's go: to drop you from higher. You cunt, he whispers, as you fall from his angelic grasp, speechless. And, yeah, I know I ripped off Louis' joke. Eat a dick.
Or, rather, listen to this, below these here sentences, when I finally stop.
Then go kill yourself, because, if you're a musician, you'll probably never make it to your Wilco Phase, not even close. You'll wake up, have a kid, your kid, rubbing shit in your mouth; and you'll be sad, right deep in your fucken eyes, where no-one looks, not one of your shitty friends, because they're all too cunty to care enough. And you'll see whatever passes for the next hodge-podged, stolen, filtered through kidneys and pissed out beautiful new progression of genre-blends - or purification of one ( traitorously debased, in this case), holy, stalwart music truth - and you'll throw your kid at the wall, kick your dog in the face, fuck your wife in the ass, shoot a fucken cripple and realise this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yYCz06bS380
Which James FUCKING Murphy knew, before he killed with that Starship Troopers reference, only, cunt,
YOU DIDN'T.
And then you'll sell your house. And buy all the same kinda shit that lives in my beautiful new soulzie, John Shepherd's, band room - which I just stood up, walked over to and looked into, beatifically, and yeah, with a cuntily smug smile right there on my face and you know what?
YOU'LL TRY AGAIN.
This is ONCE IN A LIFETIME, Kids. Then, Death, who becomes a close friend, in the end - cause you got so close to him All The Fucking Time by Living Hard - will one day grab you away to nothingness. And then all the cunts left behind will say: "That cunt. That cunty fuckface was awesome. And you'll get the honour of having 'FUCKING' as a middle name. So WATCH THAT SHIT BELOW, DOWN THERE, NOW. And then watch it AGAIN. AND AGAIN. Until you realise why I've said all I've said. Watch it until you realise, perhaps, something I may have missed, some little detail I might have skipped which I then didn't say AND THEN FUCKING MAIL ME ABOUT IT. Because I WANT TO FUCKING KNOW. The mail addy is chadliampolley@gmail.com
Fucken Do It. For fucken reals. Anytime. Cause I want to punch your face about the things I believe that hurt and kill me EVERY DAY. And if you do, too, I need you in my life.
*
[And, yeah, I know I'm wasting tons of my breath, hell, it was bound to happen, these cunts will always be there. They will always exist. They're necessary. Shut the fuck up. And, yeah, I guess I meant both meanings, smartass. And if you feel sad after watching BELOW kill you with sheer supremity, just listen to Coming On Strong by Hot Chip, because they heal all wounds. All. I swear. It's like angel's piss bathing your wounds. And then go out and fuck yourself.]
"Um, HOLY FUCK... guys... guys, come listen to this."
I think I thought these particular thoughts because, well, I've heard the majestic fucker's previous album and, well, HOLY SHIT, THIS FUCKEN ALBUM.
Holy shit, indeed.
Holy fucken shit.
Holy sweet fucken jesus.
You need to listen to this, friends. And you need your headphones. Or it needs to be LOUD. That's important. Very Important.
And then you should take it to your friend's house and play it LOUD. VERY FUCKEN LOUD. IGNORE HIM, CRANK IT UP. THIS IS IMPORTANT, TOO.
I am supremely glad I just happened to have my headphones on first time this one swung my way. This album is extremely headphone friendly, straight off the bat. The intro track, THROUGH MIND AND BACK... well, you can imagine..
The sounds... they go floating around... and about... and up and down... AND IT NEEDS TO BE LOUD. INDEED.
I am picturising things in my mind-brain: THIS IS Trevor Power's Wondrous Bughouse.
If you, like me, had heard Trevor Powers' first album, The Year 0f Hib3rnation, before you read this then you may understand my explosive reaction once you listen to his holyfuckchrist-this-is-shittingly-good new album. Coming from an album that is, well... ...background... you know, kinda ambient, kinda hypnagogic (to coin THAT phrase) ... not so much explosive as imploding in on itself, melodies hiding under bedsprings... I almost immediately liked the first YL album. It's not explosive music, as stated, but I guess it's not meant to be. This new release literally explodes, all over your ear-holes. And you should take that statement however you will because, yes, it is a marvellous aural orgasm. It's drenched in LSD. From the first intro track, to the delightfully held-back -- and you'll think I'm being a fool -- second track, MUTE, it drips Psych references.
[[And so it begins...
MUTE:
"Living in a 3-D world,where the clock is in control.He sits on his throne on top of my wrist and tells me what I know.
The devil tries to plague my mind,but he can't quite get inside."
Ah. The Devil. As in: "What the devil have you been up to, Mr. Powers?"]]
The melody and strangely paradoxical manner in which the repetition of MUTE is, somehow, restrained will delight you. It's fucking beautiful. In fact I'm going to listen to it again. And again.
The third track smacks you across the jaw. It's dripping in psych. It's StrawbzFieldzForevz.
And... fuck... ARE THOSE HORSES IN THE BACKGROUND?
And then it goes on. A maniacal carnival ride through Trevor Power's brainspace.
And, after all is done, you'll sit, and think. And perhaps play it again. And then you'll say: "Fuck, I should do acid to this." And you'll try call a mate, or you'll SMS someone for a dealer's number because, SHIT, THIS NEEDS TO HAPPEN -- either way, you'll make plans for a picnic in the Wondr_us Bughous3.
Quick kids, we still have some few sunny days left. It's time for some day-tripping. For fucken sure.
At the end of it all, I have one small thing to say, really: Thank you, Mr. Powers. Thank you very fucken much, you wonderful man. "Youth Lagoon is something so personal to me because writing music is how I sort my thoughts, as well as where I transfer my fears..."
Trevor FUCKING Powers. Sexy. And good. And look, below:
"My mental state is usually pretty sporadic...a lot of this record was influenced by a fear of mortality but embracing it at the same time. Realizing that human life is only great because it is temporary. Experimenting with ideas about dimensions. I'm not a gifted speaker, so explaining things is difficult for me. But music always makes sense."
Sense indeed. You try make sense of it, friends.
