For BJ

My friend died two weeks ago.

I’d never had a friend die before. The day I found out (The day he died), I called Diana. I sobbed into the phone. She said some things to calm me down, and she also said what I needed to hear most.“This isn’t about you.”

I went home and I did what I needed to do to get my feelings in check. I wrote this, for one. Since then I’ve grappled with whether or not to make this rumination public. BJ’s death wasn’t about me, and it isn’t about me still. It is about him, and those who survive him. I worry about trivializing a family’s suffering by posting my own unsolicited feelings on my mostly-defunct music blog. (What is the protocol here?) But BJ always seemed to care about LL; he always asked about it, was ever eager to share a new song he’d fallen in love with, and even let me feature his photography (pictured here) a few times. He was one of its first and best supporters. So I think this is ok. At least, I hope it is. (But how can you be sure? The dead don’t talk.)

BJ fought cancer for over a year. During that time he asked that I make him a playlist, just of things I’d been listening to recently. I put it on my to-do list and put it off perpetually. He asked if we could catch up on the phone, said he appreciated my friendship and wanted to stay more regularly in touch. I got busy and never called. He finished a round of treatment, and I asked for his address so I could send him a card. I never found the perfect card and so I never sent one.

My mom was diagnosed with early stage breast cancer this winter. Within an hour of hearing the news, BJ sent me a veritable essay on chemo tricks and tips. (You didn’t even have to ask.) Months went by. I didn’t make a playlist, I didn’t call, and I didn’t mail a card.
When he died I felt a lot of things, but mostly crushing guilt. (This isn’t about you.)

It may sound trivial. Indeed, in the grand scheme, a playlist, a phone call, and a post card don’t add up to much. But it’s the little things that matter. It’s the little things that get us through the day, that help us live with ourselves. It’s the little things that set friends apart from acquaintances, loves apart from lovers, and memories apart from the haze of the quotidian. Can I call myself a friend if I can’t or won’t make time for the little things? (You can’t be sure. The dead don’t talk.)

I don’t believe in God. I don’t believe in a higher power, or heaven, or hell, or spirits, or the afterlife. I believe that we have the time that is given to us, and that is all. So I sit with the fact that my friend is gone—to dust—and in the time that mattered, I didn’t give him time.

Even if I am completely wrong (Often, you hope you are), and there is in fact something past death, I sincerely doubt the departed are checking the internet. (Post-mortem Facebook posts are the saddest exercise in futility.) So posting this is little recourse. But I think I owe it to him to at least pretend. Or hold out hope that maybe, just maybe, there’s something else out there…
And they have wifi.

My friend’s death isn’t about me, but through it I’ve learned some thing about me: the relationships I want to cultivate, the little things on which I want to concentrate. This is late, it’s not enough, and I am truly, deeply sorry for not giving you time when we had it.
But hey BJ, here's your playlist.

While we're here:

I know this is the opening track on the playlist, but I want to make double-sure you listen to it. I've cried at least 4 times while doing so. Also of note, the lyrics include the word "asunder," which is something you really don't see every day. (Check out Allies For Everyone on Facebook.)

Mainland

I stumbled upon this track during one of my regular, 2am binges into the depth of Soundcloud. Its discovery only justified my insomnia.

Cape Lion are a duo hailing from Sweden, consisting of Carl-Johan Sevedag and Martin Wiklund. They classify themselves as electronic pop; I think of them as a Royksöpp + M83 hybrid. Upbeat electronic melodies are coupled with quality lyricism and vocals, with a splash of epic. But Pop. Epic Electronic Pop.

All of their their songs are well-produced and catchy, but Mainland sticks out to me the most. It kicks off quickly, with descending drums leading right into the hook. I’m particularly fond of the lyrics:

now we’ve grieved enough – time to let it go
we’ll be drifting off – time to let it go

Que sera, sera vibes all the way, the song stresses the importance of living in the now, ignoring the temptation to imagine how things should/could be within different circumstances. It’s this coupling of serious, emotional lyrics over an upbeat, catchy electronic melody that defines this group’s sound.
All this, delivered in a beautiful Scandinavian-pop package. I’m sold.

Listen to Mainland below, and check Cape Lion out on Soundcloud/Facebook/Sweden.

Montréal -40C

I’ve been sitting here for half an hour staring at the screen, telling myself I am better than writing about the weather.

Talking about the weather has always seemed like a kind of gateway drug—the first step towards an adult life doomed to small talk and banality. With that in mind, writing about the weather feels unforgivably pedestrian. So I’ve been rehashing and revising, trying to think of a better introduction, but have ultimately come to an unfortunate conclusion: I am not better than writing about the weather.

I’m going to try to self-rationalize this now by noting that weather is currently the number one cause of emotional tumult in my life (no I don’t have a lot going on ok). I have been having intense visceral responses to it, and have even been moved to angry tears on a handful of mornings while walking to work, blasted by -5F degree winds. So if you’re still humoring me, I’d like to take a second to get my feelings out on proverbial paper and say, YOU WIN, WINTER. I HATE YOU.

I’m in Chicago and the weather has been so bad that I dread getting out of bed, even on days when I’m well-rested. On mornings when it’s below zero, and I know icy tears on my work commute are a real possibility, I need something especially enlivening to help jump-start my day. Enter: Malajube.

I discovered this band when I was in high school, boarded away in the frozen tundra of northern Michigan. They’re from Montréal so they know a thing or two about the cold. In fact, they have an entire song dedicated to it. Montreal -40C was their breakout ‘indie hit’ in 2006, a bouncing piece of indelible pop rock, off-the-wall but hardly amateur. A upbeat musing on the sometimes harsh reality of a frozen city as one’s cruel mistress, this was my go-to winter alarm clock song throughout high school. When I reintroduced it to my musical rotation in 2015, I was delighted to find that not only could I still relate, but sonically it still felt fresh. My apologies if you came here expecting new music, but sometimes it’s best to stick with what’s tried and tested. Montreal -40C is one of the few things that can get me going on a snowy morning. Try it on for size.

Oh, and you might notice that this song isn’t in English. They say music is a *universal language*, and I don’t think that holds more true than when we unite against a common enemy. In this case: Elsa.

Montréal -40C - Malajube

See Me

Have you ever had the perfect concert experience? Doors are early, the opening band is great, you can see the whole stage, your favorite beer is on tap, and the headliner plays the obscure b-side you hoped against hope they would? Ok. Now allow me to one-up you.

Are you familiar with The Wild Honey Pie? They’re a music blog/video production company based out of Brooklyn, and several times a year they organize group trips with a twist. Two months ago I was lucky enough to attend their second annual On The Mountain, a snow & music extravaganza held at a ski resort in Vermont. It took place over three days, and was attended by roughly 70 strangers, 6 bands, and TWHP production team. Think all the camaraderie of the Real World, with the activity and travel component of Road Rules. I guess it could best be described as the Read World/Road Rules Challenge of Music, minus the challenges. (Though, skiing was a real challenge for some. Hi Nick.) Over the course of the weekend, in addition to sloping, drinking, and hot tubbing, guests got to sit in on live sessions from each of the bands present. Yeah, it was as cool as it sounds.

But we’re here to talk about the perfect concert, and I’m not going to be a generalizing cheat who claims a whole weekend as her one moment. That perfect moment—singular—came the first night of the trip, when Tei Shi performed in a candelit, wood-paneled room, in front of a roaring fire. The audience sat on blankets on the floor and held votive candles. If you’re thinking “This sounds campy,” remember we were literally at adult summer winter camp. And besides, it made for beautiful ambiance. But all that setup would have been for naught had Tei Shi not been such an able performer.

Tei Shi was an act I had heard of but neglected to explore on account of broad generalizations I’ve made regarding a certain style of hyped, female-fronted mellolectro¹ outfits. You know what they say about assume(ptions). The R&B-influenced instrumentation and fuzzy production does feel familiar, but her beautiful, unaffected soprano sets her apart from the pack. While many of her peers rely heavily on auto tune and vocal effects—resulting in lackluster live performances—Tei Shi shone in a stripped down environment, showcasing a vocal purity that only comes from a mature understanding of one’s instrument and respect of its limitations. Nothing in Tei Shi’s music feels forced: it’s like a warm blanket covering you on a snowy night. To be able to experience that in such a close, intimate space was truly the perfect musical package.

Check out a recording of said session below, and be sure to explore the rest of TWHP’s On The Mountain footage. There are some gems. You can get Tei Shi’s debut EP here, and keep an eye out for her in the future.





^{1. [Term trademarked by me, just now.]↩}

Take Care Of You

I'm listening to this song on repeat while doing my best to find some kind of background on the producers.  Apparently, it’s a duo comprised of Mazego and Vitesse, two Parisian fellows with a few remixes to their respective names.  Combine them and you get Saje, the moniker under which this song was released.  The Saje Soundcloud dates back 6 months, while Mazego the solo artist seems to have been on the Facebook game since 2011. Despite this short timeline, the sounds these two are churning out are far from novice. With two songs to Saje’s credit, they’ve already been able to create a unique, recognizable sound in a musical climate of copycat-regurgitation.
 
To try and describe their music is to study the constant redefinition and meshing of electronic music genres.  Deep-Electro-Trap-Chill-Dream-Step, if I may.  Take Care of You is a hybrid of Tom Misch’s guitar-centric beats, with Odesza’s lingering synths and massive drops.  Saje is now 2/2 with an uncredited male vocalist, whom I can assume is either one of the two, or simply an unnamed, golden vocal vessel.  Regardless of genre definitions or background story, these guys are damn good.  It’s refreshing to see two relative newcomers coming out with completely original material, while providing surprising well-written and appropriately themed vocals.  I’m sold, and methinks you will be as well.

Wicked Waters

High—maybe number one—on my list of “new artists you should know” is Benjamin Booker. Baby, he’s a firework. A force of nature. Fantastic.

The Florida native purveys a mishmash of blues, soul, and garage rock with sprinkles of punk on top. His sound harkens to a point in musical history when rhythm & blues connoted heavy kicks and jazzy guitar licks, before it morphed into the watered-down, vocal-run driven R&B we hear on the radio today. But while his influences are firmly rooted in the past, his delivery is wholly 21st-century. Booker’s inflection reminds me of a harder-rocking Connor Oberst: angry and angsty, spitting across story lines about starting families and skipping town. Like Oberst, his voice can hardly be called beautiful, and many of his lyrics are spoken on-key rather than truly sung. But like Oberst, the garbled timbre of his voice allows him to effortlessly translate raw emotion into song. When he really wants to drive a point home, he wails—as though he’s moments away from bursting into angry tears. It’s grating; it’s glorious.

The roughness of Booker’s voice and overall sound is what makes him such a delight. This isn’t one of those “revivalist” records meticulously crafted in a Nashville studio….looking at you Auerbach. It’s the kind that could have been hurriedly taped in the back of a car for a next-day release. (Indeed, Booker recently told Aquarium Drunkard that he cut his latest cover on an iPhone in a hotel bathroom.) Take the rollicking Wicked Waters as a shining example. A plugging organ crafts a vintage feel, but the frantic, relentless rhythm guitars lend the song a tightness that’s decidedly more rock n’ roll than blues ditty. It’s raw and urgent, and that urgency is what makes Booker’s music indispensable. So when he howls “I am what I am, I’ll make it on this run,” I’m quite inclined to believe him.

Booker is currently on a world tour, fresh off a string of dates opening for Jack White. I skipped his set when he opened for White in Chicago. I’m the worst. Don’t be me. Don’t be the worst. Catch Booker when he comes to a city near you, before he blows up and starts playing mainstages at every music festival from here to Australia. Listen to Wicked Waters below and BUY or stream his debut self-titled album NOW.

Wicked Waters - Benjamin Booker

Human Sadness

One of my most-hated music ticks is when people insist that a song/album “gets better with repeat listenings.” 99% of the time it just means the song is objectively terrible. That said, I'm going to take my foot out of my mouth and tell you that this song genuinely begs more than one listen, if only in order to fully wrap your head around its sonic surfeit.

At 11 minutes long, Julian Casablancas & The Voidz' aspirational Human Sadness certainly reads like an exercise in rock excess. But if you can learn to anticipate the jolting, distorted scream at 2:40, you might just grow to love it (seriously though that thing made me jump out of my skin no less than three times). It won't click for most people at first. It's too weird, too meandering, too "wait this is The Strokes' Casablancas?" But sit with it for a couple days and come back to me—I promise the payoff is worth it.

The thing is, Human Sadness is just a couple steps away from genius. And I mean genius. Not really good or the song of the year, but transcendent. The caveat, however, is that it’s not quite there. (Though honestly had Ariel Pink released this, Pitchfork probably would have hailed it an art-rock triumph.) It wanders, dropping a theme before its had a chance to fully establish itself. It undermines absolutely riveting progressions with distracting, Nintendo-esque bleeps. But through the haze of noise-for-noise's-sake are prolonged moments of brilliance: rays of a discernible melody peeking out through clouds of distortion. It's a track that wants you to love it for what's inside and not what's on the surface. Which, in this Max Martin era of music, is quite a rare bird.

Listen to the track below once, then come back to it in half an hour and listen to it again. Just trust me.

Pre Game Chillout

As summer winds to a close, we’re all struggling to find a way to hold onto the dream. Suff Daddy makes it a little easier with this little number, Pre Game Chillout.

The Berlin native captures the sound of 90s West Coast rap oh-so-perfectly A straightforward beat, simple synth melodies and jazzy bassline makes a man want to cruise around in his 6-4. The guitar riffs only add to mixture, a throwback to a simpler time when a producer only needed a few instrumental tracks to cook up something special. It’s refreshing to hear such a minimalist approach to beat making, and it goes hand in hand with the song’s title: chill out.

Check out more of Suff Daddy’s instrumental hip-hop on his Souncloud.

Shine A Light

Hello again. After a three year hiatus from LL, I’d like to re-introduce myself via an indispensable track.

As LL’s primary purpose is to promote Goldroom and Flight Facilities, I thought I’d maintain the status quo by promoting the upcoming Flight Facilities album. Doing this without reposting Two Bodies for the millionth time proved to be difficult, however, so I thought I’d delve into one of my personal favorites from Oz, their remix of the C90’s Shine A Light

It’s hard to believe three years have passed since this gem was released. While it was ultimately lost in the buzz surrounding Crave You and Foreign Language, I would argue this as the quintessential FF track. No matter what’s happening in my life, this is one of those tracks that makes my problems melt away. Beautiful lyrics, a catchy chorus, and an introduction that grabs you in with cascading synths and simple, steering piano.

Kudos to Grand Theft Auto V for featuring this song in-game… during a mission where your character takes acid and jumps out of a plane. Well played.



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The Righteous One

We’ve all been there: Girl meets boy. Boy likes band. Girl forces herself to like band. It’s a tale as old as high school. Except sometimes it can happen in your mid-twenties. That’s how I—rather appropriately—discovered The Orwells.

Early this year, a guy I was really into told me I should listen to The Orwells. He sold them as “The new Strokes.” I listened. They weren’t. But I was really really into this guy, so despite their inability to fill the gaping Julian Casablancas-sized void **OMG PUN INTENDED** in my music library, I gave them another chance. And another. And then another. But they didn’t click. Their scuzzy, simplistic garage rock was catchy enough, but it lacked that certain something that I could either relate to or revere. Eventually, the guy and I had a falling out and I no longer had anything to prove, so I gave up on The Orwells. I chalked them up as one of those indie things I would never “get”, like Grimes. Or almond milk.

But then by happenstance, I started following The Orwells on Twitter. And suddenly: I got it.

I don’t often let musicians’ internet personas dictate my opinion of their artistic output, but in this case it made all the difference. I’d read profiles on the band, I knew their general backstory and style, but it wasn’t until I saw them referencing my old stomping grounds that I began to understand their point of view. You see, The Orwells and I have a lot in common. I grew up in the Chicago suburbs, not 20 minutes from their hometown of Elmhurst. I too felt completely smothered by the suburban tedium surrounding me, misunderstood and maligned and totally claustrophobic. We both used music as an escape—The Orwells formed a band and toured the world, I shipped myself off to boarding school to study opera. It’s the same thing, really.

Their Twitter’s plucky, cynical commentary on pop culture, the music industry, and this suburban world I know so well resonates: they echo many of the sentiments and frustrations I’d had when I was their age. (Though fortunately, when I was their age we had AIM status updates in lieu of Twitter; I could have gotten into a world of trouble as a teen on Twitter.) And when I began to understand their teenage ethos, and to remember my own, I began to connect to their music. A night of hiding in your car to drink underage, followed by puking on the bathroom floor? Been there. Lamenting a town where everything closes at midnight? Done that. The Orwells are angsty suburban kids, and though I’d like to believe I’ve transcended, inside I’m probably still just an angsty suburban kid.

And so I realized I’d been approaching The Orwells all wrong. The Orwells are not The new Strokes by any stretch. The Strokes weren’t relatable—they were iconic. No one listened to Is This It and thought, “Oh yeah this describes my life.” The Strokes were cool: they lived in the cultural epicenter of America; they went to elite boarding schools in different countries; they had absent parents; they undoubtedly had access to the most incredible drugs. The Orwells, on the other hand, are not cool by cool’s standards: they grew up in the Midwest; they went to public school; their parents probably drove them to soccer practice; and—speaking from experience—the weed out here is shit. The Orwells make garage rock for people who know what it’s like to have an attached garage. The Orwells are one of us. I get it. I totally get it.

It’s fitting that I came upon The Orwells by rather immature means, as they seem to inspire the younger, rawer me. What other band could get me to show up to a 12:45 set at a music festival? Literally, none. I’ve never done that. But I’m so glad I did, or I would have missed the best moment of Chicago's Riot Fest, when frontman Mario Cuomo brazenly proclaimed ”WE’RE FROM THE SUBURBS” before launching the band into a song about the mall. It was punk as fuck. And for a moment, I was a little jealous of the teenage girls in the front row.

Red Eyes

I’m seeing The War On Drugs this weekend.
I needed to get that out first and foremost, because I’m so stupid excited about it. You know who else is excited about it? My dad. Yes, my dad and I are going to see The War On Drugs together this weekend, and that’s amazing.

It should be noted that this isn’t a common occurrence. At least, it hasn’t been for a decade. In the early 2000s my dad came to concerts with me — I needed a ride, and he thought it kept him hip. (He still pats himself on the back when he recognizes an Interpol song.) But I grew up, moved away, and could drive myself, so my dad and I haven’t had reason to see a concert together in ages. But The War On Drugs are special. Really, really special.

You’ve probably heard at least some of Lost In The Dream—the band’s marvelous third album—by now. If we’re friends, you better have. It is the rock album of the year. (And yes, I’ve already listened to the new DFA1979 album.) You’ve heard of a road movie, right? Well, this is a seminal ‘road album’ if I’ve ever heard one. It’s the musical equivalent of Easy Rider for the millennial set, with the heartbreak to match. Adam Granduciel has woven the ultimate soundscape of disappointment and longing, at once expansive and deeply personal.

Granduciel hasn’t set out to reinvent the wheel; he’s polished it. Indeed, this album could have been released any time over the last four decades and would have held up just as well. Granduciel has spent a lot of time absorbing the influences of his idols, from Dylan to Springsteen to Stewart, and it shows. While he pays tribute, he exalts himself to their level by doing it just as well. That’s what makes this album so special, and why it translates across generations. Many artists play homage to their influences; few are able to capture their essence so completely that they could be counted as contemporaries. This is an example of stylistic mastery—take note.

But anyway, dads should love this shit. Mine does, at least. You know who else will love it? You will. I promise. Just listen to the single Red Eyes. Or go a little deeper, and listen to the album's 9 minute-long opening track, Under The Pressure. You'll get it.

The War On Drugs play the AV Festival this Saturday in Chicago (with a slew of other great acts including Valerie June, Empires, and Mac DeMarco). Look for me; I’ll be the adult woman rocking out with her dad.

Not Your Mom's BBQ

This week’s post was supposed to be a little thinkpiece on Chicago’s suburbia / a love letter to The Orwells, but I got really caught up in making a playlist, so you’re getting that instead. Plus, it’s a holiday weekend, and who wants to read anything of substance over a holiday weekend? Not I. We’ll tackle suburbia next week. In the meantime, here’s a playlist meant to soundtrack your long, lazy weekend. Not Your Mom’s BBQ compliments the type of Labor Day that involves a small group of friends, grilled meats, and a lot of weed.

Pay special attention to the Angel Olsen track Forgiven/Forgotten, which I think encapsulates that atmosphere perfectly (and whose lyrics really spoke to me this week). Her latest album, Burn Your Fire For No Witness, strikes me as a kind of working girl’s stoner rock: atmospheric but contained, raw yet pointed. With clever, often devastating lyrics, she has just the right amount of girl power without being campy. A better Best Coast, if you will. Check out and download the song, and stream it in the context of the playlist on Spotify, below.

Forgiven/Forgotten

Till Sunrise

It’s pouring outside, my power is out, and today I saw three cars stuck in a flash flood (which I narrowly escaped). It’s the last weekend of summer and I was ready for some Blue Hawaii vibes, but things are shaping up to be way more Sharknado 2. Thank goodness for Goldroom. His latest track, Till Sunrise, will have you, me, and everyone we know feeling tip top tropical til long after summer ends.

Unfamiliar with Goldroom? Shame on you. Someone once commented to me that LOOSE L!PS' primary purpose seems to be promoting the music of Goldroom and Flight Facilities. That’s not the case, but it's not too far off. Anyway, if you’re going to make reading the hallowed pages of this blog a regular occurrence, you best acquaint yourself with one of our favorite artists, stat.



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Somewhere Else Tonight

Before I begin, I want to qualify this by saying that it’s been a LONG time since I genuinely enjoyed a new “banger.” I’ve been way too wrapped up in repeat—nonstop—listenings of The Strokes discography. Sure, there are still club hitz I hold dear to my heart (ALL of Tiesto’s Kaleidescope — not ashamed), but that’s more or less because they elicit ecstasy flashbacks, not because they’re what I’m actively pulling up on Spotify. But when Mansions On The Moon sends me a new track, I listen. I listen good.

Ok. So. Somewhere Else Tonight is kind of a banger. One thing is for sure: it isn’t the MOTM I first met. It’s actually a far cry from the type of music that drew me to the band years ago. While they’ve always had electro sensibilities — even their earliest tracks included some heavy synth work — the initial incarnation of the band was markedly more tepid, characterized by a whole lot of falsetto and feelings. Somewhere Else Tonight sees them retain the lilting, melodic vocal lines that initially attracted me to the band, and undercuts it with a bass so booming I can Feel It In My Bones. (Yeah that was another Tiesto reference. Fuck with me.) There’s even a breakdown of sorts. But you know what? It works. It’s great. And after working with the likes of N.E.R.D., Diplo, and Mac Miller, who can blame them for leaning more towards a radio-friendly sound? And after all, there’s a reason the teens are into bangers. Bangers can be glorious.
As for this? This is pretty glorious.

Somewhere Else Tonight will be released on Mansions On The Moon’s debut album, due out in October. You can pre-order it here.

Photo Credit

Circles

Ennui has come a long way. What was once a criminally underappreciated four-piece recently morphed into a criminally underappreciated solo project, and with that lineup change has come a sort of renaissance. A loss in member quantity hasn’t proven detrimental to music quality, and in fact Jim Doutrich’s solo transformation has rendered Ennui’s already shimmering soundscapes grander, the atmospheric loops even dreamier. Ennui may have shrunk in stature, but sonically speaking it is soaring to new heights.

While Doutrich’s wistful, often aching vocal lines continue to serve as the cornerstone of Ennui’s output, you’ll notice a marked difference in accompaniment: The fuzzy guitars and a sparse drum kit present on 2011’s (excellent) Formation Of Tides have been traded in for an endless procession of lush synths. It’s an interesting progression, given that this is Ennui’s third album. Typically, synth-driven projects incorporate more traditional instruments later in their discography, as though making a push towards becoming a *real band* through the introduction of a full-piece live show. Here Doutrich has done the opposite, paring down a tighter, more manageable package. In doing so, the album feels almost like a half-decade throwback—the style harkens to the Hipster Runoff-christened “chillwave” movement. I loathe to categorize it was such, given that Doutrich’s musicality far surpasses any given 19 year old bedroom producer, but if you’re looking for that golden oldie sound of 2009 cultivated by the likes of Washed Out and Toro Y Moi, well, look no further. Anyone in need of a soundtrack to a day at the beach should have Telepathic Beat (due out in September on Mush) at the top of their list.

Ennui’s new work might feel somewhat nostalgic, but Doutrich is clearly looking ahead. On the album’s first single, Circles, he laments “I’m wasting away my years”, before launching into a credo of sorts, ”Turn away don’t give up / All the lines that you’ve crossed…Turn away, drift apart / Don’t go back to the start.” Given the history of the band, and Doutrich now embarking solo, it almost seems as a call to action; a self-motivating rallying cry. Change is hard, but Ennui is doing it for the better. Have a listen and see if you don’t agree.

Time (And Time Again)

LOOSE L!PS' 10 STEPS TO BECOMING A
SUCCESSFUL NEO-FUNK PRODUCTION DUO
AND THE TALK OF THE BLOGOSPHERE

1. Shroud yourselves in “mystery”
2.Release music videos starring other people—namely, black dance crews—causing the media to jump to the conclusion that the stars of the video are in fact you, despite the fact that you have never stated such. Not to mention, loads of music videos star actors or dancers rather than band members.
3. Release single artwork featuring aforementioned dancers that aren’t you.
4. Let the media assume you really know what you’re doing, genre-wise, because you are a POC.
5. Design sweet bomber jackets emblazoned with your super sweet logo; put them up for sale months before your full-length LP is even a whisper.
6. Start playing shows. As yourselves.
7. Have media realize you are actually skinny, pale, white guys.
8. Let them be chuffed about it. Chuckle at all the ‘cultural appropriation’ grumbling
9. Start giving interviews as yourselves. Suffer through a billion “WHY” questions about your identity and initial presentation.
10. Have it all not matter because your music is really, actually, completely awesome.

I present you: Jungle, with the sounds of summer 2014. Stream their debut album.
Or just make one yourself; you now know all it takes.

Wish they would have released this as their first video so the media assumed they were grandpas.

All The Rage Back Home

Interpol have released a new single and it is better than it has any right to be.
No, wait, I'm serious. Hear me out.

Interpol was my favorite band for the better part of a decade, but I was ready to admit that the era of my melancholy magnates was over. First there was the departure of enigmatic bassist Carlos D, the Interpol brand’s masthead and only redeeming element of their live show. Then came that disaster of a self-titled 2010 album—a plodding, uninspired lesson in tedium. The end was spelled: they were out of new tricks and the old formulas had begun to fall flat. So I bought the TOTBL 10th Anniversary deluxe pressing and resigned myself to the reality of a world where the only Interpol we heard from was the one that catches terrorists.

But then Interpol went and released All The Rage Back Home last week. The first single off of September’s El Pintor is alarmingly good, even excellent. It marks a return to form, but a more important return to function. That is, Interpol have stopped trying to sound like Interpol, instead achieving a sort of musical self-actualization. All the pieces of are here—from from interwoven guitars to a ruthless rhythm section, even a respectable bassline now provided by Paul Banks—but the band has managed to capture an intensity and honesty not seen since 2004’s Antics. The lyrics, which in any given Interpol song typically tow the line between completely genius and totally crazy (You’re so cute when you’re frustrated, dear/You’re so cute when you’re sedated, dear.), are inoffensively ear worm-worthy. Interpol have cut through the doom & gloom and done the improbable: they made a damn good rock song, by any measure. In A minor!

All The Rage Back Home - Interpol




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Trainwreck 1979

Hi. This is weird; I thought I was more or less done here. But I’ve been thinking a lot recently, and I might still have it in me. I just needed a motivator. It’s like when Brett Favre retired and then un-retired. Sure, Favre had millions of dollars as his motivator, but the real moral was that he loved the game too much to stay away. There’s some deep metaphor here with me being Brett Favre and football being music, but I’ll spare you that allegorical clusterfuck.

I will tell you about the motivator, though. If there’s one thing I could come out of retirement for, it’s Death From Above 1979. If you don’t know my DFA1979 saga, you can read through these old posts and learn all about it. But if you have a life and value your time, I’ll just sum up: I LOVE THEM MORE THAN MY OWN FAMILY. Soundtrack to my teenage angst, kind of thing. They released their first new track in a decade yesterday (a precursor to their first new album in a decade, out 9/9), and so in a gesture of “if they can do it, so can I,” I present you with Trainwreck 1979. It has the same raw power that made them so appealing 10 years ago, but sees that sound tightened and polished. As Asian Dan remarked, “This is what the Black Keys would sound like if they were good.” Touché.

Have a listen:

Subtle

Big industry awards often frustrate me. Be it the Oscars, the Emmy's, or the Grammy's, the nominees for these types of shows often feel all-too-predictable, seeming more the result of bureaucratic processes than true appreciation. But every once in awhile, a gem of an underdog gets the recognition they deserve in the form of a nomination. This year, we're cheering for Mikky Ekko, the Tennessee songwriter who's duet Stay with Rihanna (perhaps you've heard of her) received a nomination for Best Pop Duo Performance. But while Stay is an undeniable smash, it would have been cool to see his more recent collaboration with Active Child, the incredible Subtle get a nod, too. But hey, baby steps.


Subtle (feat. Mikky Ekko) - Active Child



While I gush away about his collaborative tracks, I have to note that Ekko is a formidable performer in his own right, evidenced by his summer single Kids, which you definitely need to check out.

Hello Again

Hey fellow countrymen, have y'all had enough of the cold weather yet? Me too. But don't worry, I know just what you need: JAMAICA.

Sadly no, I am not running a contest to fly all my readers to paradise, but close. JAMAICA -- the insanely catchy, pop rockin' French duo -- are back after years of doing whatever French musicians do between albums (smoke a lot of cigarettes, look cool, and eat bread probably, idk) with their sophomore release, Ventura. While the album drops in March, its befittingly monikered first single, Hello Again, is here now. It has every bit of the bouncing beats and jangling guitar work we remember from the band, with a markedly tighter, polished finish. This preview has us pretty darn excited for the rest of the album, but as for now -- a snow day never sounded so good.

You can preview the song below, but if you want a download link, you've gotta head over to the band's website.
Go, Go!

Hello Again - JAMAICA