Sonic Reducer: Marsupious, Ras Elijah Tafari, Neverdrive

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Here is a summary of Dawn Will Be Sacred: Brutal, muscular, veering toward a rationally realized math rock, but also filled with anxious, verging-on-angry subtext about the state of civilization through vocalizations that are auspiciously enunciated by a singer leading his fellows through darkness toward a new, metallic light. The new monstrously epic album by Marsupious is an organic construction with industrial portents leaking through the fluctuating wormholes it creates, as if music is a ritual meant to signal the transcendence of time, the end of man and so forth. I feel both satisfied and disconsolate while listening to this recording. Favorite tracks: “Cosmic Bitch,” the title track and closer “Stoma Karm.” To paraphrase a certain verisimilitude of humanity, one sometimes has to destroy in order to create.

Ras Elijah Tafari Red Coals (Central Root Studio)

I know what you’re saying, fellow cynical Gen X, millennial and trans-dimensional, super-generational readers of these telegraphic record reviews. Yes, the name of the artist in this particular case is indeed Ras Elijah Tafari, and no you do not get to pounce ironically or otherwise on that dude’s name, because really, this is a decent record, a fab record—even if if the occasional auto-tune drives me closer and closer to an unfortunate encounter with the eternal vocorder in the sky. With local hip-hop nation and rocanroler guest artists aplenty (how’s Def-I or Revíva’s Chris Brennan for cred-building rosters, yo?) plus a real delicate feel for flow and form, this tapestry of talented tuneage includes memorable pieces like “Reap What You Sow,” “Higher Nature” and “Dew Of My Youth.”

NeverDrive NeverDrive (Self-Released)

This is one of those albums that just starts playing—and then feels to everyone in the room or anyone else who has been exposed to its vibrant viralism—like it’s always been playing and more than that, it accurately describes the lives of everyone who is in that room listening listlessly, until sleep overcomes each individual there. Then of course one dreams of the stuff on record here, from the aching groove of “Ode To IPhone,” to the rambling, and piquantly alluring excursion described on “Antispychotics.” By the time listeners get half way through this all too short summer reverie, wandering through the candied cacophony of “Alright” it is more than alright; it’s gloriously art-damaged—ghostly echoes, high register guitar explosives and lamentive, petulantly pendantic vocals and all.

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