Latest Article|September 3, 2020|Free::
Making Grown Men Cry Since 1992
Here’s an interesting release—in the sense that atypical, crafty lo-fi rocanrol usually gets buried by its more metallic and noisy kin here in Burque—that I almost skipped over. Listening to this three-track EP reminded me of my first experimental expeditions into classics like The Pod or Bee Thousand; there’s an infinite amount of beauty and terror in the details. Darkness suits these edgy eruptions but you’ll have a constant craving to listen with the lights on, anyway. Though the slouchy, almost-too-casual vocalizations hint at hipsterish indifference, the playing throughout is full of a kind of heartbreak that must come from true tales of beatnik glory. Bill Palmer makes his guitar weep wantonly on the title track while vocalist Corey Warner invokes Gene Ween’s plastic-fantastic tonalism—especially on the second track, “Swim”—with little effort and plenty of chutzpah. It’s only rock and roll, but I like it. A lot.
The work on this album is not strictly musical, but rather provides a sort of all-inclusive sonic diagram for any number of obscure IRL rituals. This ain’t the stuff to lure guests to your next house party with, but it is something serious listeners should keep nearby, ready to put into play. This mélange would work wonders in cases when there’s a sudden apocalypse to reckon with, or alternatively, when a long-deferred group sex gathering featuring remorse and shiny bird masks encroaches nakedly upon the empty, smoke-filled horizon. Replete with ambient sounds, darkly atmospheric snippets of melody—and seemingly possessed by the sorts of lurid dreams one only half remembers after a night of digging through the mountains of the moon—Bleak and Drained of Colour is a challenge to digest, but that’s half the fun, folks.
New rappers. I get calls all the time from local agents telling me how this or that turntablist “has just gone viral,” or will be the next Eminem—and soon won’t have to play gigs at “Skate Ranch” because Las Vegas just loves their flows. Okay. Somewhere in that miasma of musical manipulation, talent finds a way to proceed and often begins without a formal announcement. Such is the case with Casper The Hoax, a young ’un from Burque with a basic drum kit and an elaborate sense of space and timing. The dude’s new recording, ST.47 sent me spiraling into a satisfying, seizure-like trance with terrifying tuneage like “forthisilltaketheirgold.” Raggedly repetitive, antagonistically acoustic and filled with the sort of imagery that defiantly describes the preferable nature of outsider status, ST.47 ought to be your preferred cup of tea if you dig wondering what MC Ride sounded like before he conquered art school.