Feel free to post yours in the comments and I will add them to the post.
IF THEY'RE VALID. No. Just kidding. But not really, but kinda. Mostly.
My top 5 Covers. As of now, at least.
-- Because angular guitaring. Because Slits. --
-- Better than the Springsteen version: Because minimal. Because
overdriven casio. Because somehow more frank and confessional than the
original. And mostly because I am biased towards CFTPA. -- stream it from our mediafire. The correct version was NOWHERE. CFTPA - Streets of Phily (stream on mediafire)
One of the greatest shows of timing and calm - anyone who has ever done looping live knows the terror of *just* being out, by like a 16th note.
UGH.
Because it's REALLY REALLY REALLY good.
Please tell me this cover of New Order's 'cover' isn't great.
Bet you can't.
I don't want to speak about elvis depressedly because he is ruining my life.
I heard this first:
Then I listened to this:
Which saved my life in 12 or so minutes. Then it ruined my life, quite alot. Finally I got so disturbed that I put it on repeat. Because I am a masochist.
This is the video for weird honey. I don't like first listens with a video. It detracts.
It is also of vital import that you follow, in no uncertain terms, the following, helpful and necessary instructions:
1.Put your headphones on. 2.Have the decency and respect to disable any EQ modifications your system may or mayn't have. 3.If you have a decent streaming speed you may click that coggy-guy on youtubesels and make it at 720p. Done? Good.
If, unfortunately, you have no cans but do have the capability to play it VERY FUCKEN LOUD you may do that instead. Also: If there are any oher people about who give as many fucks as you do
I’ve never been one for latest fashion. It’s way too much hard work trying
to keep up. One misstep and you're fucked. My ex-girlfriend (from way back –
she is still referred to as my ex because I’ve not had another one since
her) has recently developed a beard fetish. Men with beards, that is. Not
growing one of her own.
I don’t get it. A once no-chinned and zero charisma fuckwit suddenly becomes
interesting and mysterious because he's grown facial hair for a year and
looks like he’s just finished chopping wood. If you live in a log cabin, gather honey, trap small animals and make your own hinges via blacksmithing
methods, I’d come and shake your hand, but like those cunts hanging out at Warm
& Glad: they do not. I repeat: do-fucking-not do those things.
And buying sleeveless puff
jackets from ‘Cape Union Mart’ doesn't fucking count as really being a rugged
outdoor adventurer either. It’s fake manliness. You live in a flat in Hyde Park
that your parents bought for you after you dropped out of WITS where you house
your wobbly wind-up turntable that can play 78s, a single-gear bicycle and free-trade
coffee plunger (after getting rid of your CDJs, in-line skates and USN
whey-protein tornado shaker) It’s all a farce. An illusion. And the girls that
fall for this shit are as dumb as those that go for the smooth gym boys with
their BMWs who still live at home or those cunts who all went and bought long black leather
coats after watching The Matrix and looked angry all the time like they’d been
relieved of sniper duty. Just try and talk these people and you’ll see that
there is nothing there. No substance. It’s all frontage. Window dressing. A
facade designed to trick the viewer in to thinking they are something they are
not.
The problem with people who think they know everything is that they take up
space amongst those of us that do.
Whenever there is hipster talk, there is inevitably music reference. Lets get
something straight – music snobbery has been around for a long time and I’m
fucked if some bunch of commune-living, hairy cunt-faces in plaid shirts,
braces, horn-rimmed glasses with no lenses who own looms are going to claim
ownership of that time honoured tradition.Anyone can be into bands no one has ever heard of. It's super easy. Christ,
you can make up bands and people will nod knowingly.
Don't be one of these cunts...
Here are a bunch of traditional beardo weirdos not on your typical hipster quill-and-ink
hand-written mixtape (with edible organic rice paper insert):
Michael McDonald
Kenny Loggins
ZZ Top
Barry Gibb
Cat Stevens (Andrew the DJ: be-fucking-ware. Borderline Stevens territory)
Kenny Rogers
Let it be known that Michael McDonald is the undisputed king of yacht rock and the voice of a generation. I was spinning Doobie Brothers 12"s when you were still learning to wipe your arse.
Driving to my god-awful job this morning there appeared before me a landmass of a Land Rover. Not an uncommon sight in Johannesburg
where it’s a necessity to have a vehicle so fucking big it doesn't fit into
regular parking bays so one either has to use up two bays or squeeze some
regular considerate normal sized car parker through his boot or passenger door.
This one was different. It had a personalised plate.
Normally I wouldn't give a fuck. If you’ve got and extra 5 grand to piss
away for 8 letters on two pieces of plastic then well fucking done to you.
This Land Rover’s p-plate was ‘LANDY 6’. Well fuck me! I’ve seen a SLK 55
with the plate ‘SLK55AMG’, a Porsche 911 with ‘911TURBO’ and so on. What sort
of unimaginative cunt does that? Was the standard issue model badge thing not
big enough? Did it fall off? Is repeating yourself a mental itch? Duplication a design trend? Need to highlight the fact that you're much more successful to other less fortunate drivers? That aside, my problem with ‘LANDY 6’ was that five other
cunts got in there first.Imagine being
a fly on the wall at the licensing department as they went through all the
options to get to 6.
So here are my top 6 songs for those ‘out-of-the-box-blue-sky’ thinkers whose personal
number plates match the model of their car. They're totally interchangeable with songs
picked for meaningless power point presentations about ‘drilling down’, ‘core
values’, ‘taking it to the next level’ and 'kicking it up a gear'. God knows I’ve sat through a few
of those…
R. Kelly- I believe I can fly
Roxette – Dressed for success
Johnny Nash – I can see clearly now
Matthew Wilder – Break my stride
Sound of Music – Climb every mountain
Survivor – Eye of the tiger
Oh, and anything by Coldplay
Use them to inspire. Use them to reach out. Use them to fuck off.
-->
Sad birthday indeed! I turned 54 the other day and spent it alone (by
choice). I hate my birthday. I hate having to be nice to people who speak to me
once a year especially when they hang about after saying the words ‘happy birthday’
and spew forth riveting questions like, ‘So whatta ewe dewing for ya birfday?’
and ‘Are you being spoilt?’ Nothing. No. Fuck off. Really…fuck off.
Repeat all day long.
Then every cunt in the accounts department crawls out of the dark hole
they’re kept in all year and demolish the cake I'm forced to buy (stupid company
policy…they should buy the cake!) I’ve solved this part...
Bring out the quality
cake and let the boss and a few key people responsible for my continued
employment know on the sly. Once they're all done, I insert into the hellhole
known as the communal kitchen the SPAR abominations of cheap-arse milk tarts
and things covered in coconut for everyone else and then alert them by group
office internal mail. It’s devoured in seconds.
One can bitch, one can moan. Two can create a conversation about it. Three can meta the fuck out of it and extrapolate reasonings, contextual markers, residual trappings.
One can do all these. But one is trying to make good.
The point of this place, this blog, is the sharing of music as much in the sonic sense as in the sense that once you're in, you're in. There are things I can say, here, that many would not care about or, perhaps - and don't presume I'm getting all Nazi and L33t, we're past presumptions: I am and I don't care if you think anything of that. Now. one man has many subjective things to opine, vitriolically or in some kinda staid manner. This place is free form. Ultimate goal: sharing. Secondary: a place for people who get pained by the latest release because it's been all they've thought aboutfor the past two weeks, people who put a song on repeat for three hours only for it to get better, People who want to punch things in the face about how good the new Psy-reurgence is turning out.u
So, I need people to help keep the content flowing. Quite urgently. I'm kinda busy trying to make good, in the life sense - and blog readers ain't givin' no fucks 'bout that, yeh? Indeed.
So, if you read this and think you could post something as simple as a youtube link and a one-liner or maybe a mini-paragraph stating factoids about a new release - or committed effervesce of the suckdick nature AND if you think you could post something twice a week or so, please mail me.
The more the merrier: wider scope, both in voice and sonics.
Mail sadbirthdays@gmail.com and I'll send you the passwords. I just want people that give a fuck. And I want this place to expand into something people can rely on -- interviews are welcome, weekly columns are cool, mixtapes - anything. There is no content restriction. As long as it's about music and the sharing of it - or ideas about it. Please help me keep this running.
Tirzah is a London based musician who I’ve been following with great interest over the past couple of months after seeing her perform with Micachu for herBoiler Room setearlier this year.
She has recently put out an EP, I’m Not Dancing, released on the increasingly prolific London-via-Berlin label Greco-Roman. The EP presents three (and a half) tracks of noteworthy calibre. The title track, I’m Not Dancing, is almost facile in its structure yet conveys a palpable complexity of emotion embedded in a very raw, gritty yet shimmering soundscape. The trend is continued with Inside Out, which combines alluring RnB-esque vocals with gloomy, churning synths. Tirzah and her beguiling take on D.I.Y pop are sure to find purchase amongst those who value the somewhat scrapyard approach to music that Micachu( who produced the EP) has shown over the past couple of years.
And yes, this EP was released more than a month ago already. STFU I’ve been busy.
Check out the video for I'm Not Dancing as well as Inside Out below.
I was thinking about Radiohead today, deeply: pensive, of course. I didn't have a gun. Or sandwiches. But my brow was wrinkled, seriously wrinkled - and, well, serious thought was required: Because, Radiohead are serious musicians who deserve to be taken seriously.
And there's alot to be serious about because, clearly, Radiohead are 'N 2 IT' and viciously engaged on all the levels. Especially the ones that only Elvis Costello knows about - and he's got All The Angles.
Well... honestly, boys...
I disengaged. I lost interest. It was a couple - read 2 - albums back because, well... heavy lies the crown, right? Right.
And you certainly are heavyweights. You're basically matrics, big kids - wizardy seniors to all us paupery juniors - playing Rugby against the U14C team and, well, playing hard, no holds, and taking the game as seriously as super serious is serious.
Big Fish. Small Pond.
Heavy Crownz.
NECKS.
*
FACT: It cannot be terrifically easy being the world's most famousest, forward-thinking, self-conscious, socially aware, politically radical, introspective, interrogative, intelligent, politely conscientious & all round dilligent bands in the ever.
So, WELL.. I guess this slightly drunk on gin nips behind the desk teacher NEEDS to go to the school cupboard...
GOLDSTARZ all round boys! TOTEZ 4 REALZ! WE ALL LOVE YOU.
I think I smell pee. Oh. Wait. It's me. Fuck... ... ...
Anyway, look, I can mostly imagine that it's largely terrifying beyond an unequal measure being Radiohead.
Or perhaps it isn't. ...Perhaps it's so abysmally easy it defies logic.
Only Thom's dystopically winking lazy eye in it's omniscient and omnipotent glory knows.
I can hear the band softly sniggering, behind their hands, at their meticulously constructed fuckery, smug as dolphins. My butthurts.
But, really, no more funsies. FOR REALSIES. Let's get MAD serious. Brass fucken tacks, black cunting hole, Higgs father-fucken Boson Serious. So...Radio-fucken-head. [[And, yes, they get a "fucken." Hey. Fuck y'all. Stop booing before I squirt you with warm gin and throw pens at you.]]
Man, look, it's just too much.They've gotten so used to the crown the we, the cunts of this tale,put on their heads, and just so ok with it all, that they became too afraid to - to rigidly careful about it staying there - to let it slip and clatter to the floor whilst they (throwing off cloaks, or something [aesthetics, aesthetics]) - strode up to and clanked open the doors of their Ivory Tower, viciously, purposefully and with menace and trudged down steps and steps and steps:- down to the stink and noise and shit and piss and sweet garbage and booze-stained jeans, the vomit-flecked hair, the drug-addled eyes, the wild talk, the flame, the fire, the light, the blood-rinsed snare, the bleeding knuckles, the casually revelled in shame... the stolen, broken, jury-rigged gear, the utter beautiful stench and wet and THERE of a band, killing themselves, in a dark place, jostling - mind, body, heart - with the six humans who want it as much as they do: us commoners. us fuzz-drenched idiot-savants; clutching fear and pain and hope and light: We suck. HARD. And we swallow. All of it. Seriously, sucking the dick of rockenroll never tastes sweeter when spitting the load at our fear and hate or when spitting at a copy, a facsimile, of the same self-indulgent derivative drivel we hope we can make afeared of our awful enought to let us the fuck alone. Or just spit the cum at the drummer's face. Chances are he likes it.
I want sweat.
I want that broken pedal that is now, somehow, perfect.
I want you to fetch me at 2 for some binge: getting productive whilst effed in the ay with you has never felt better.
I want that 3 o' clock track or sketch or fleshed action, made, on the factory floor, in the dust: dripping your effort off the tip of your nose as you smile at me.
I want humm & buzz & obviously, tits out, because because - because um like, it's totes cool... it's not, you know, sexual or nothing... just like, you know, walk around and do stuff. Like anything. Smoke cigarettes... make some tea... play scrabble... read DUNE... only just, well, with your top off... It's be so mad cool and bohemian and if you NEED a reason other than Life Aquatic - as if you would - well... fuck. Ok. Don't. Fine. Everyone hates you.
TANLINES.
Then I want you to slap me, hard, to LCD's Losing My Edge, for EVERY SENTENCE IN THIS RAMBLE... and then, perhaps, fix me a strong drink - thanks, dear - and tell me, earnestly and with a dash of lemonade, how self-aware and intelligent I am. Then we could kiss, here, depending, you know - just let me put on Chelsea Girls' #2.
But I want it to sting, on my cheeks, so slap hard, BITCH.
I want it wrong.
I want it integral, I want it earnest, I want to delicate or cruel intent and will and, with pain, I want it thrust into the world. I want you to care.
I want you to punch me in the mouth, then put a lit cigarette between my lips; then let us talk.
*
Forgetting to remember to forget is tough as all hell: but somehow, some cunts, secretely superglued that crown to Their fatherfucken heads.
We forced their hands.
They had no chance after Kid A.
It was a bloodbath of soaring expectations. -------------------------------
-----------It was mafuggen Amnesiac.
+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_
WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
Ok. -------------FUCK, OK..........
Ok. Breath here. *sips beverage, wipes dribble on chin* *crosses arms seriously, leans in* Let's get down to nails.
--->Radiohead are important.
Important enough to need more "categories' if we're going to do a best of Them, of their works. And DING DING DING LOVERS! IT's not just Best Album, KIDZ! IT's MOAR MOAR MOAR........
SO... Grab Your Fucken Crayonz, CUNTZ, let's GO.
Best Radiohead Album
And I do, punch you in the gut real hard, I really do mean AL-fucken-BUM. A true album.
It's a strangely falling into shadows art-form, the fully-realised and holistically crafted album in this blog-buzz-dominated twist in the temporal relativistics and half-hearted swift gobbly consumption: artists spewing out EPs and digital singles with no LP-length repsite.
Maybe I've been blinded by all the crosses and triangles and faux-hip forced ASCII symbols as I say this, choking on my whisky, and I hate it BUT: coins flip. And all statements have grey in them. ALL.
The MoreMore DL cult has forced a amphet-quickening into music veins and now we fuck every genre, fuck with wild abandon and haste, gestating, too quick for belief, idiotically articulate cross-boundary babies, hatching in their MANY like mounds of fucken spider eggs in your aural holes, hatching all over your brainbox's meat till you pass out from TOO MUCH.
One day all music will be coloured.
IT's OBVSKID fucken A.
PUT YOUR FUCKEN HANDS DOWN. NO! SHADDUP. That is all. No RUDDY questions.
~~
Best collection of songs?
Amnesiac, fucker.
-PUT. DOWN. HANDS.- -TEACHER SPEAKING, cunts-
[[*lights fag, happily, smirks at J, sips juice - which OBVS contains triple gin: cos I'm LaidBack like HotChips, warning, with no emote: I'll break your legs, I'll snap off your head... from my chair, thinking, always, of boys and girls who sure look good in uniform... on dancefloors*]]
Most Enjoyable Work
Why, it's The BENDS of course. What else?
It's straight fucken up RH just being the talented cunts they are.
They're shitting good, aren't they fuck? Fuck. Holy pissing whiskey Jesus, this band isn't even trying: It's just flowing out of them, seemingly, like ADVERB SHITTING VERB ADJECTIVE EXCLAMATION CUTING NOUNS.
Most Revolutionary Release
Ok, Computer. It's RADIOHEAD (in caps, now, urgently stretchin and flexing, glowing blue screen flicker, fluxing, posing, diving into the VOID, into the black: only to emerge as Kid A, grown into a super-humanoid android crystal glowing energy and OTHER).
YAH, that sounds fucken wack. What was I thinking?
But me, I'm ever purposeful:
How infinite wack was the wizardly spot-off timing of the release of Amnesiac? How infinitely fucked were people's heads?
TOTEZ FUCKED.
[[~~I think someone at Rolling Stone, or something,]] [[~~literally shat rainbows from sheer HOLYFUCK.]] [[~~True as fuck fucken Story.]]
*
And, now, I REALLY JUST CAN'T be SRS anymores. I'm donesies. This explosive-verbosity is stenching. Each word, sentence, sentiment... opinion... FUCT...STAHP... Shit............ SMOKE. DRINK.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Oh, and just saying: DECEPTACON *Released '99, fucks. IT'S A GODAMN 90s SONG. Jesus. Lesbians. Girls Moustaches of Dance-Punk Awesome.
That bassline. It jumps and jostles and affects smiles for miles.
This album is a masterpiece. ...
If you only listen to one Arcade Fire song EVS, this one tells you ALL you need to know.
If a song is going to track in at an epic whopping 9 minutes plus, it best have a good payoff.
This song is perfect perfect perfect. Each graduation in the layering is just in the right time, just at the right volume... just... fuck.
The sardonic cheering at the end will make you want to shoot someone in the head, or go take a warm bath with a razor blade, and some candles. You know, aesthetics.
*******************************
And also, in no particular order either. Here are mine.
~ J.
[I'd have put Is This It? But you've just heard it, annnnnd I think I've said quite enough about The Strokes right over... >> here]
Here's a super happy track to kick things off! Nobody plays a Dirge quite like these taciturn motherfuckers. This is pure control and simplicity; a taut as fuck piece of beautiful, 2-chord post-punk grunt.
Disorder. Period.
This song: flawless. This particular presentation of that song? More flawless.
There's a lot of hit and miss with Blondie, but this? This is a definite fucking hard hit. It doesn't hurt that the band's fronted by the sexiest flippen bitch in music, ever. Fuck her for being 30 when she started Blondie man; FUCK HER!
I've been hooked on this song since I first heard that opening celesta cascade. Thank heavens John Cale found one in the studio at the time of recording. Thanks gods also that Lou sang it and not Nico.
"This song is all about last-minute changes. The inclusion of the track on their first album was literally penciled in, Reed decided to take over vocals at the last minute as they walked into the studio to record it, and John Cale noticed a celesta in the studio and decided to include the instrument for the song on the spot. Cale also played the viola on the song."
And all this last minute shit is what makes it the fucking stupidly great song it is.
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.
