A Hypothetical Hit

Alright, so I didn't have time to review an album in these past few days because I was too busy living my damn life and all. Sorry if that really pisses in some of your cereals but here's a revelation: I'm not a hamster on a wheel.
I'm sorting out book deals, movie rights, action figures, edible underwear prints so much that I'm up to my furry gills like Wal-Mart on Black Friday.

But thankfully, I do care enough to still give you a review. Sure, it's hypothetical but it's exactly what would have been here for anyways, what with all dribble pushing from the current indie scene like an open festering wound that refuses to take any shit from Neosporin.

So imagine, if you will, that some pretentious, avant-garde indie no-name bursts forth from the fertile womb of Sub Pop or XL or some label only Owen Pallett knows about. It's brimming with the kind of stuff indie wet dreams are made out of: allusions to Sylvia Plath and J.D. Salinger, instruments from Norway or Oregon, and big beards that can house small woodland creatures.
The album artwork is some uncanny Polaroid that's out of focus and has the subject skewed out the frame with some Helvetica or (God forbid) Futura type announcing the album title either subtlety enough to make you think it was a speaking at a dance recital or bold enough to vomit type all over the page like alphabetical diarrhea.

Finally, the track list:

1. Some low-quality audio record from an old cult-classic film even obscure to Edward Norton
2. Opening track packed with promises of greatness and originality
3. Radio-friendly single
4. Song to remind you that even though they can make a single, they can still alienate the public like an old uncle exposing himself at a wedding
5. They take back that whole exhibitionist move and slow things down to a simmer
6. Filler
7. More filler
8. Old B-side from when they used to play at church camps and birthday parties at skating rinks
9. Pavement tribute song
10. Angsty anthem with a Wachowski-sized cliff-hanger

(Repeat steps 1-10 as financially needed)

The Profit In The Pain

As children, when things make us cry, we go out of our way to make a huge Kelly Ripa of a deal out of things. We kick, scream, and shit ourselves like Amy Winehouse at happy hour. But somehow, at some point in our lives as we get older, we decide that the things that slip us into a mildly depressive state are pretty damn cool. And not just remotely satisfactory, we're talking "The Notebook" blockbuster worthiness. I'm talking "Dear John" stardom (this list is going to be as predictable as Sparks' own movies in another sentence or two).

Maybe it's to remind us that we're still human.
That we can still bleed.
That maybe even in our cold, technologically sound but emotionally distant cyberspace, there remains a glimmer of beating heart.
Maybe it's just to shed water weight post-P.F. Chang's, I don't know.

Factually, I don't care enough about you guys to get introspective, but one thing's for sure, if you're making money out of making people other than yourself experience some falsetto'd form of heartbreak, then that's an industry you shouldn't be rewarded for.

This is where Stars comes in.
After a few albums of you guys bitching and complaining, I was really holding out thinking that maybe sometime between your financial comeuppance and celebrity status, SOMETHING good was bound to happen. Well, forgive me for my obviously ignorant assumption. It just doesn't end for you does it? You're like the Bluths of the music industry.
Sure you've thrown in some synths and a few sightly poppier choruses but the fact is, the moment I start bobbing my head to the beat, your sorrow creeps up on me like ED at Band Camp. "The Five Ghosts" feels a lot less like eerie hope and a lot more like genocide with Depeche Mode driving the tanks.

Forgive me for not groveling at your grief-stricken feet, but somehow I feel like you're already down there in the fetal position weeping abstractly about some catastrophic relationship gone apocalyptic. Which raises the even bigger question: How the hell do any of you have the time do date and fall in love that often? Is this a kinky Big Love sort of situation or are you just milking an old relationship like an abusive farmhand?

Either way, I've stopped caring, which is something all of you could learn to do a little better.

On a more positive note, your curiosity as to what a musical version of the Hills would sounds like has been quenched.
You're welcome.

Unlawful CONTRAband

I'll bet you thought you'd fall right through the cracks did't you, Vampire Weekend? Thought that just because your album came out before the blog was in existence that I wouldn't call you on your shit. Well guess what? The call comes now, Batman.
It would be one thing if we hadn't had a history. You're all Owen Wilson like "why you gotta be so messed up towards me?" and I'm totally Zoolandering you with the "I think you and I both know why" zing. Don't act like you didn't just take my mom out for dinner and ask her to leave the tip. But that's not what burns me now. Neither is it you asking her if she wants to head back to your place. I mean, there's like four of you. Isn't that illegal in thirteen states? If not, it damn well should be.

But Happy Father's Day, just in case.

You parade around like you own Futura Bold. Do you think you're in some sort of Wes Anderson flick?
Don't think I haven't seen your album cover. What the hell does she have to do with 1987's arcade smash? Judging from your last cover, it seems like you just take random flickr pics and make them your next cover.

I'll save you the trouble for your next 3 LP's: "Arkanoid", "Frogger", and "Galaga" (thank me via PayPal).

If that's not enough, you take the term "preppy afro rock" to a new low. Isn't the goal with you Ivy League grads to not care? Here I am, expecting a lot more of a Galifianakis sort of mentality, but instead you lampoon the industry with an album that actually IMPROVES on the last sound. In this economy?! This same time last year you didn't give a rat's ass about Oxford's superficial punctuation and now you decide to do the opposite of MGMT and make an album that really tries to be something good?

They've got a few word for pricks like you: Over-achievers.
I didn't like them in rehab and I'm sure as hell not starting now.

Pitchfork: 0, Bearsharrrk: 1; But Who's Keeping Score, Right?

Alright, the truth is, I'm trying to get better at this whole schedule thing. I feel like it could help with a lot of things, but they'd all be things I don't do or have time to do now. I guess I'm having problems disciplining myself for more disciplines when I can really just set the bar low for my lazy ass and consistently surpass myself when I do any remote amount of awesome. This spares me from hours of disappointment and a lifetime of taxes (that's what blogs are for).
But, for you loyal readers, I'm turning it all around. For you, I'm going to try and hit a schedule of sorts. I'm thinking Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. I plan on sticking to it tighter than that Kutcher doll on Demi Moore's middle-aged botox.

Except on Holidays like Christmas and New Years day.
And probably Jewish holidays to be fair.
And then even fake holidays like Valentine's day.
Tax days are out of the question.
So are celebrity birthdays like Gary Busey.
And if there's ever like a hot party that would good for research instead, I'd probably take a rain check on the whole post thing.

Other than that, we're golden.

I know I don't usually say very many positive things but it's late and want to finish this so I can lay on back, stare at the ceiling and listen to this record like an overturned turtle that can't get back up.
If you're not listening to Husky Rescue right now, I hate you.
I hate your sorry guts.
They popped onto my scene like a joyful little zit and I'm refusing to medicate them off of my shit. This is no joke, this record is going to change your life in ways you only thought Maury could.

I recommend if you're just getting started, break into the scene with the ever-haunting "They Are Coming" video. If that doesn't make you believe in something, your very use of oxygen to supply your own cold, dead, but somehow beating heart is such a waste of resources, it should be criminal.

Listen to Husky Rescue's "Ship of Light".

Do it now.

Just remember, every song you purchase is a vote for a new album.
And I think it's high time we gave the Jack Johnsons of the world the proverbial Heisman.
"Curious George" was un-effing-forgivable.

You Took A Real Shat(atat)

Suck it, Ratatat.

Yeah, I saw your video. The one with the bird.
I mean, I totally got it. Most people would be all WTF but I was all INIGI ("oh, now I get it" [make this happen on the interwebs, people. I'm feeling like it's the next SISOTC {"sorry I shit on the constitution"}]). But that's not why I'm all up in paws.

I'll excuse the fact that you're named after a Pokemon. Normally, I don't. I've got a major chip on my shoulder about new stuff pissing on my youth. I'm looking at you, Speed Racer and G.I. Joe (Michael Bay, stay the hell away from my childhood).

No, Ratatat, what gets me most fired up is your total lack of appreciation for you own jams. If you were smart, you would have stayed away from musical collaborations. I don't know if you listened to the final cut of "Pursuit of Happiness", but that track was just flat out "dope" (90's slang flashback, thank me later). It proved just what your music COULD become with the right vocalist and a viciously hip-hop backbone. Now, I listen to LP4 and I'm all "where the eff is my CuDi!?" Instead, all I get is 45 minute long bridge that refuses to satiate my hunger for greatness.

You're like a really funky elevator ride that tosses me out of the cabin a floor too soon.
It's what I call musical masturbation and I don't care what creepy ass Keith Richards says, it's totally uncool.

I'll admit that you're slightly reminiscent of Minotaur Shock with a hallucinogen addiction; take that as a compliment. You've got all the makings of a great record but, the truth is, time didn't turn out to be your friend (similar to its relationship with Kirstie Alley). If that Kid CuDi single hadn't come out before this album, you'd probably be reading some moderately satisfied, unabashedly coy review from a scenester too pretentious to ever admit an album has succumbed to his overall expectations, but instead here you are in the wake of a hit, tossing out a real pill of a record.

If "Pursuit of Happiness" was Weekend at Bernie's, you're the godforsaken Weekend at Bernie's II.
You're the Staying Alive to Saturday Night Fever; the Batman & Robin to Burton's Batman.

I hope you're getting the picture.

There's only so many ways I can spell this out for you, but I guess I'll let you take a page out of your own book.
If you want to speak through wondrous art of animals on film, take a look at this shit and read my lips:

Under-The-Influence-Tronica

I hear people complaining all the time about their places of employment. They come to me all "you have it easy" or "if only I could have a job as semi-professional amateur blogging apprentice". Well, I've got news for you. This shit ain't just waking up at noon, waffles, free music, and international fame and fortune. I mean, I get all of the aforementioned but, truthfully, it's all just to compensate the long hours I have to put into this.
You think it's easy being a cultural commentator? I wake up every morning around noon; which maybe isn't the earliest but if you consider the time on the West Coast, I'm basically up every morning at nine. And every knows, it's five o'clock somewhere. Besides responding to the onslaught of emails and xbox time, I'm pouring all of my heart and soul into writing for you guys; whoring myself emotionally better then Oprah. That's time I could probably be spending with a child or two I potentially have in Jersey if this subpoena holds any weight.

Have you seen the super awesome design of this blog? I can tell you that it didn't damn well design itself. And then, once I've spent the whole two hour work day trying to write some fresh literature and wow the nets with some razzle dazzle, it's time for research. That's usually around 9pm where I've gotta go out and hit up the clubs and dive bars; indulging in a night of heavy drinking with this alt culture.

But I don't do it because of the free booze, the endless rush of concert tickets, or the lifestyle of an indie rockstar.
I do it because I'm offering something priceless.

And that's knowledge.
And that shit'll take you somewhere.

In this way, I'm giving more than just YOU something that's going to last.
I'm giving your children and their children's children and their children's children's robots (by then, it will undoubtedly be the future) something that will last too.

It's called an education.

I'm more or less a philanthropist with a blog, which is more than I can say for most philanthropists.

So while engaging in some Research & Development this past weekend, I came across anther Brooklyn hometown act that deserved my attention. They're called Yeasayer and their Wikipedia page is only seven lines long, which means by comparison, I'm going to write an effing biography.

According to the Wiki, they're labeled as "experimental rock", "psychedelic pop", and "worldbeat". I didn't know what any of those words meant so I googled them. Turns out googling "experimental" and "psychedelic" will lead you to some seriously illegal stuff. The most PG-rated I can keep this (which is, coincidentally, the rating I'd assign to this blog) is probably just referencing you to the album art. It's like a Nintendo64 game on acid.

I'll tell you this much, Yeasayer will make you want to call date rape on their trippy asses. I've never done any drugs or seen very many drugs being done but I have seen Johnny Depp in "Blow" and I did see "Walk The Line". From what I gather, it's a lot like Yeasayer; only with a lot less synthesizers.

If I was Wikipedia, I could totally give up writing right here like those lazy bastards; which is you all, considering it's written by everyone. But I'm better than that. And there's a good chance I'm better than you specifically.

I don't know what you want me to tell you.
I guess you could listen to Yeasayer if you don't mind psychedelic hooks with enough spunk to leave you dizzy and feeling like you're riding a giant rainbow dragon through a chocolate forest with skittle volcanoes. Maybe they're for you. But I'd warn you to be careful. One moment you're bobbing your head to the likes of "Ambling Alp" and next you're turning tricks for another shot of LSD and fun dip. It's a slippery slope that you're sure to take a tumble down should you let these dangerously dancy deviants (alliteration FTW) into your home life.

My advice: if you're going to listen, make it a social thing. Do it with your friends. Do it while others are around to keep you company. But should you ever find yourself alone in a room all by yourself with the Yeasayer on, you've gone too far and it's time to start seeking out some professional help.
Or at the very least an MTV reality show.

Take that, Wiki.

...And They're Not Even Black.

I've been meaning to write more but I've been fairly busy partying like a somewhat unknown, reasonably self-deprecating indie rockstar lately. I'm currently spread pterodactyl recovering from one massive evening that's consequently rendered me as chill as a pregnant hamster. But while my liver's been growing a rather intimate relationship with PBR and my thumb is completely callousing over from sparking up Parly lights, I know I've gotten behind on my job as a semi-professional amateur blogging apprentice.

I've gotten enough emails about what music reviews I need to cover to fill out the next several hours of my day. I type sort of slow too, so that's saying something. But because I am a gracious mammalshark, I'm going to fulfill some of your wildest dreams by answering some of your questions, but I'm not going to give any of the satisfaction of seeing your names credited (let's remember who this is about).

I'll answer all your questions at once through the illustrious brilliance of the forthcoming run-on sentence: "yes", "no", "not all that often", "only if there's a third party involved and they've brought A LOT of ketchup", and finally, "I'll do it for twenty but I want recovery time in between rounds two and three".

Now listen, if you're like me and all up on factoids and statistics (a phrase I try to slip into my day at least once), you know that the majority of all music released in the world is from movie soundtracks. No one's going to forget when blockbuster hit, Titanic wowed the world in creating a new artist for all of our mothers to love. In the same vein, New Moon thrust the unknown Thom Yorke into the spotlight. Before that, he was probably just playing dive bars and recording music on GarageBand or something.
But with The Black Keys, they seem to be working backward.

This blues duo is releasing music that makes you feel like you're actually IN a movie. It's a bluesy sort of sound that will make you feel like you're caught somewhere between Pulp Fiction and Black Snake Moan sans Samuel L. Jackson.
Now maybe at this point, you may find yourself thinking, "hey, this all sounds pretty cool. I like blues and I definitely like feeling like I'm in a movie".

Wrong.

This is never a good idea. When was the last time you saw a movie and you found yourself wishing you were in it? That's because movies tell stories and there's one thing in common with all movies in the world: the main character is in some seriously deep and regrettable shit.

Riddle me this, Batman.
John Conner in Terminator: Wanted dead.
Maximus in Gladiator: Gets dead.
Bruce Willis in The Sixth Sense: Dead the whole bitchin' time.

But maybe you find yourself thinking to yourself (out loud), "well that's not very fair. I like blues. It's got a great chill vibe and is some good gettin'-freaky listening."

Well, you can suck it.

Go read a blues blog and stay the hell off of my internet property.

Chill-Intended Discrimination

Alright, let's just get this out of the way.
No, I don't listen to the radio. I don't have any use for those frequencies (minus NPR) toting lollipop melodies like a corporate-driven falcon vomiting half-digested worms on all of her starved children. I find my music the old fashioned way; soundtracks from the Twilight saga and internet blogs.

Mind you, the blogosphere is the better alternative, but it's by no means a flawless algorithm. Case and point: Surfer Blood.

There's a lot of stockaded ammunition I could start this out with.
I'm not going to go there, but I want you to know that I know that you know that your cover sucks. It's offensive and overly stereotypical. Of course you want to berate this poor fish and make him seem all ferocious when he was probably just caught mid-sentence saying something encouraging to his sharkmates.

You bastards. How would you feel about something like this?

You think you know sharks? You think just because you've grown up in Florida (let's face it, America's goiter), you know all about one half of my genetic material? I scoff to think of just how ignorant you all must be. But if that's how it's gonna be, I'll take no mercy bringing your stoned asses down a notch or two.

No, I haven't listened to your afro'ed nonsensical record. If I know one thing, it's that I won't stand for this kind of blind ignorance when you're helping perpetuate a negative prejudice that's about as ill-founded as Scarlett Johansson's musical "career" (I'm using the term liberally here).
Taking a gander at your song titles, I'd have to say you're somewhat discredited via your pot-induced tracks. "Floating vibes", eh? "Slow Jabroni"? "Twin Peaks"? I mean, David Lynch is just bat shit.

Phrases like your track "Take It Easy" are leading me to believe you're just the drug-laden commies the good people from D.A.R.E.. warned me about; and not the recreational type. You won't stop until you've "take-it-easy-bro"ed the whole world with your indie chillwave.

Yeah, I know your type.

But don't you dare think you know mine.

Domestic Disturbance In Stereo

Don't get me wrong, I'll always have a place in my heart for the local scene. I've had my fair share of run-ins with these meat-eating-but-vegan-loving, ironic mustache-wearing ruffians. It's been a real treat keeping Djarum in business and bringing back the cassette tape (You're next, LaserDisc). We've got Pitchfork practically eating out of our lap and I'd say there's a good chance we've already recorded the album you're writing/practicing with your band.

That being said, should you pull back the Ray-Bans, you'll realize that we're still capable of wrong in some extreme circumstances (namely the first two Grizzly Bear albums; but look, we fixed it). Innovation requires equal parts risk and sacrifice. So does a heavy night of drinking, which I'm also all too familiar with.
At current, we're squeezing out music like the morning after P.F. Chang's. The positives are we're raining down new music to the clueless consumer such as yourself, the drawback is the visual I just gave in the previous sentence and the fact that I followed it up with the phrase "we're raining down".

Believe me when I say that, aside from Amy Winehouse's liver and the Bieber nation, there isn't much I'm afraid of. I live my life pretty damn comfortably. I mean, I'm a bearshark, 2 of nature's most ferocious hunters in one body; personified killing efficiency. I'm sort of like the Steven Seagal of the animal kingdom, but without the blues album (sorry for this).
But there are things that do go bump in the night besides waking up from a Galifianakis-sized hangover. Namely, this new axe, Sleigh Bells.

Trust me when I say this is sheer terror with a synthesizer.

The album is so ferocious, you're going to feel you're being manhandled by Krauss and Miller as the third member of a brutal musical threesome (a new sort of Holy Trinity, if you will). Somewhere between the first minute of the first track and the final echo of the guitar, your entire manhood is going to be questioned harder than a date with Jamie Lee Curtis.
You'll feel chewed up, spit out, lightly assaulted, treated to a steak dinner, then left with the check.

Sleigh bells is that abusive partner you keep going back to that all of your friends are begging you to leave.
They just don't understand.
And how could they?

Though, truthfully, I'm finding it harder and harder to recommend this album because, as much as I'm totally adoring it, there's no getting around the fact that what Sleight Bells does best is go for the jugular. Their brutality is too much for any one man and I'd advise listening to this album with a group rather than alone. It's going to feel a lot like Krauss is your disapproving stepmother and you're the red-headed step child that just wants to go the ball. But this Cinderella story isn't one that ends well. Sleigh Bells doesn't let up. And maybe for that we should thank them.

It's not everyday we get to be abused so publicly by someone other than the government.