Album Reviews

You know the saying about eating your words? Fully eating large bowls of "Oh shit, what was I thinking?!" O's right now, after listening to this new Sadistik album. I knew he was a handsome specimen of Pacific North West male flannel modeling from jump, but I took long, blind naps to the raps dudes. There are artists who try real hard to tap into something dark, and heavy, and sound like they're trying, and then there are guys like Sadistik who don't have to try, it's natural because there are demons being shat out and it's scary yo. Ultraviolet is that record you listen to and get chills heavy when stuff like "Orange" with Child Actor, or "Chemical Burns" (with the late Eyedea) comes on because it's haunting, dark and very real. I want to give Sadistik bear hugs shirtless for...

I have never been one to hide my love for the bands of my junior high and high school years. My music fandom was crafted out of giving any one band my undivided attention for an undetermined amount of time. I used to leave tapes/CDs in the stereo until they didn't fucking play anymore, whether physically or when I just didn't feel like living alongside it any longer. By leaving life to whatever it was I was listening to, my day to day always took on the hue of my perceived understanding of whichever band was doing the hueing. Some of my favorite life experiences took on the tastes of all of the hueing from some of my favorite bands when I think back on them now. One specific band's one specific album that I can remember dedicating countless hours of my life to in my sophomore/junior year...

Gajah might be LA's most recognizable chop virtuoso. The dude packs more syllables into a bar than Japanese people on mass transit. Dude's raps are like sausages. Stuffed! He's got a new record out called Hands of Gold Are Always Cold on Uncommon Records, produced wholly by Uncommon Nasa. Gajah cut his teeth as part of a Los Angeles duo known as Acid Reign. He and partner, Beond, formed a super team of opposites while sharpening their swords on the eardrums of heads attending the world famous Project Blowed. Gajah's been cosigned by the innovators of his rapid fire raps. Another thing I love about Gajah is, that even if you aren't a fan, you can immediately tell it's him. His voice and delivery are so consistent, his style so refined, it's impossible to mistake him for any other...

I'm the type of dude with one pair of shoes. While have nothing against new shoes, I prefer the lived-in comfort of a good pair of broken-in sneakers. The way they are molded to your feet. They way they support your arches. The way they don't crowd your toes or give you blisters on a long walk. The way they slip on and off with minimal effort. They are like old friends that way. They don't get mad when you go barefoot one weekend. Don't get jealous when you opt for a pair of sandals at the beach. They just fit. I first came across the band Francisco, the Man (FtM) when they opened for The Fling at the Echo in 2012 and they immediately fit. I went home and stalked them like an ex-girlfriend online and downloaded their first EP, With Friends like You and their subsequent single, Broken...

Sego came out of nowhere. With one fucking single that bugged me so hard I could do nothing but listen to the shit out of it constantly. But then I got the EP, named after the aforementioned single, and now I'm a listless, neon bicycle hat wearing, I have no intention of leaving my parents' basement bro, bro. There's this disinterested sass going on with these guys and it's both magnetically fucking cool and so fucking not trendy I'm afraid it will become trendy. AND THEN WHAT WILL I HAVE LEFT TO FINGER? Sego feel like an electro-dipped version of Elle Milano but with even LONGER bangs and even LESS leather. At one point I thought I was hearing an all MDMA version of Sonic Youth. I mean, what the Fuck? Is this Beck armed with a princess mirror and a shitload of fake lashes and full...

There is hip hop made with urgency. There is hip hop made in a state of emergency. There is hip hop made manic. There is hip hop made in a panic. There is hip hop that doesn't rhyme much. There is hip hop made on a time crunch. There is hip hop with a heavy plot. There is hip hop made without barely a thought. There is hip hop from out in left field. There is hip hop glorifies the next deal. Record or drugs, it only makes me shrug. There is hip hop that's bugs old lady's, and hip hop that'd mug little babies. And Allen Poe's How Gardens Grow isn't any of them. Honestly, sometimes all you need is a mellow, chill record on that everyday shit. This record came on while driving to a show the other night. The windows were down. The blunt was rolled. The lighter in hand. The city...

Now let me preface this entire smattering of flatterings by saying that I’m a fucking Rob Sonic fanboy. I don’t feel ashamed by any means when I declare him one of my favorite personalities in music. Dude could rap my resume and I’d be like “HOW DID HE DO THAT?!?!?!?!?!?! DID YOU HEAR THAT BROS?!?!?!?! HOW DID HE-? WHEN DID HE-? BRO! CROWN HIM IMMEDIATELY!!!!”. While I’m a super balls fan of his rapping and shit, I sometimes wonder if my thinking that he’s just cool as shit and that I really want to be his best friend is why I love his music so much. *bites bottom lip* Ah well. Whether or not I’m stalking him has nothing to do with Alice In Thunderdome being fucking balls. My favorable bropinion of Rob Sonic has been molded around his voice sounding extremely fucking New York....

When I jump into an album I plan on reviewing I scribble down random thoughts. Half way through Deserters, the newest album from Future Monarchs my scratch pad was a mess. I'm going to take you through my initial though process, as typed out in stream of consciousness form. 'What the Fuck? This opening riff sounds like it was used in the intro of Bonanza. Wait, I like where this is going...it has some New Pornographers girthyness. WAIT. Now it sounds like The Shins...it's like James Mercer riding on a horse. (LOLz because I'm imagining James Mercer in a cowboy hat). This bridge is an interesting change up.....it's almost like Supertramp is doing a shoulder massage train with Of Montreal. No. It's exactly like that. And the lube just spilled. Fuck this song is great.....'...

Falside is the dude in your group of friends that you have no idea what the Fuck he's up to, as he doesn't share much about his personal life, but then one day you're flipping through the newspaper on the shitter and he's won some hundred thousand dollar prize for those wooden ships you fit inside glass bottles and shit. He isn't out there bragging about his accomplishments, or that he managed to not only craft a custom clipper ship out of teak and match sticks, but he was able to replicate the fleur de li topped with a dollop of minced horseradish of Sir Winston Manichevitz's 1528 AD family crest on the masthead of said ship. Unassuming, but talented as shit. Falside is an asshole in that regard. He's part of the same group of friends that brings you Juan Deuce and F. Virtue tunes, and...

I got almost all the way through this album with a dull case of the disinteresteds before a specific moment fucking thwapped me in the fucking throat and made me pay the fuck attention and start the fucker over. At the 4:44 mark of the seventh track, "End of the Affair", I almost threw up. It felt like the first time I heard the revamped version of Fleetwood Mac's "Big Love" off of the live album The Dance. When Lindsay Buckingham starts fucking bleating like a lost goat, I fucking lose it. The goosebumps cover every centimeter of all sides of the reason I love music. Even thinking about that version of that song kills me. Ben Howard made his introduction into my ear holes by seeming rather tame, until it wasn't. And when I finally realized it wasn't, I had to...