Album Reviews

I was scared to listen to Kishi Bashi's (K Ishiabashi) new album because his previous album,151a, is one of my favorite albums released in the last couple of years. I hold that muthafucker up on a pedestal. And when I hold up certain albums on a pedestal the subsequent release is bound for disappointment. BUT I forced myself to erase 151a from my ears and to listen to K's new album Lighght because I like K; he remains one of my favorite SYFFAL interviews. Not many will go toe to toe with me and Joel in an exchange of toilet humor because it doesn't really appease the masses...it just appeases me and Joel. Come to think of it, I'm not sure our interview with K had anything to do with music; it was a blur of swears and boner jokes. The end result was so awesomely hideous that K had...

Time: the pin in the perpetual grenade, the emptiness of night, the colors on walls, the smoke chasing the cigarette, the Mondays, the Friday, the holidays, the holy days, the essential void. Its countless holes stuffed with endless trivialities and turning television seasons; glaringly obvious to the denier yet explained away by occasional moral skirmishes or bouts of conscience. SANDS, ensconced in that very tornado, is the seminal segue; the bountiful, brooding bridge between yesterday and today. ATOMS is a triangle and its three pontificating points are perched on by Cryptic One, ALASKA, and Windnbreeze. As society seeks to redefine what a nuclear family looks and smells like, so, too, does ATOMS in their reshaped, refocused 2014 iteration. ATOMS' je ne sais quoi is jarring now, like...

Sometimes I wish I had talent. I'd like to think that I have a talent for spotting talent, but that is the lowest form of talent. I'm basically a talent leech. And worst of all, that would make my 'talent' objective. So I'd really only be seen as 'talented' to a very small minority of people who share my tastes. BUT Rob Cantor, bro? Today, I'm going to fucking leech on to his talent like the untalented asshole I am. This shit-head is my host for the day and his shpechial talent (as discovered by mwahhh) is song writing. Slurp. Slurp. Slurp. It's my opinion that the best song writers are a sponge for influences and inside these sponge fibers they adapt to, reconfigure and purge out output like they invented sliced bread. If you take a trip through music history you'll probably notice this...

Post rock is one of my vices. I chose the word vice because it isn't like it's a hobby, habit or anything that actually makes me a better father or employee or human, post rock helps me not pay attention. Post rock helps me sit among the assholes and imagine them as little cubes of cheese, strategically melted to resemble rock formations in far off lands. I can look right through people if situated with the right soundtrack, and post rock has an 80% success rate when it comes to taking me from present to absent, or involved to oblivious. Yet, before you assume I'm saying muthafuckers can't get shit done when post rock is in the brostereo, let me describe the other half of the post rock listening experience. You're in tune with whatever is weighing most heavily on your mind, but in a sort...

I am fortunate in life. I know this. One of the main reasons I don't complain about things other than lazy musicians (read: tag your music bro) is that I realize I'm one of the lucky ones. I am inherently happy. I realize people think I'm a freak for being so outgoingly fucking happs in public and on the internet, but if you were sitting where I'm sitting, you'd be pretty fucking happs too bro. Quite possibly the biggest thing that makes me so consistently happy throughout the day (besides the corny answer of the wife & kids bro) is that I'm surrounded by music. From the second I wake up until the second I don't notice I'm not awake anymore, I am on the fucking jam bro. Skrait huffin the jam to the bro dome bros. Not only am I on that jam bro, I'm lucky enough to be a dude from SYFFAL...

Hold on.... Let me catch my breath because my heart rate is elevated. I've been running through a series of live YouTube videos for St. Paul & The Broken Bones. Holy shit. I can't get enough; once I watched every one I could find, I watched them all again. I know I review and urge you to check out a lot of bands, but bro, you NEED to check out St. Paul. Why should you listen to me now? Well, let me ask you a couple of questions Do you like that chop-my-legs-off-below-the-knees-gut-wrenching-soul? Do you long for a genuine sound that takes you back to the days of Al Green and collars that can be used as wings? Do you like brass ensembles that are tight enough to make your butt hole pucker? And do you want all of this oozing out the throat hole of a dude who looks like your accountant...

There are few bands in my life where the mere mention of their name makes me think of the exact moment I knew I loved them. Like, every single time I am reminded of their existence because of a random conversation overheard, the time of year, a smell, or a distant murmur of a song I can't quite hear all the way, I remember that one moment where I knew I had something I could reuse for the rest of my life to feel that fucking feel. And what's weird about the word moment in relation to this band, is that there have been entire months of my life my memory has captured as moments, framed by songs, created by There Will Be Fireworks. I sometimes wish I didn't share these next few words about my introduction to the band when I talk about them, as I almost feel I'm taking away from your...

I wasn't alive during the 60s so I when I say something is reminiscent of this era it's usually a loose interpretation of what I perceived the 60s to be like. And these perceptions are primarily formed through movies, TV shows, music, books and the vintage Playboy magazines I discovered in my friends' basements. So when I say that Calibro 35's music reminds me of a car chase or one of those cheesy scenes in a 60's era surf movie where all the actors on set spontaneously start a choreographed dance on the beach, I probably gathered those mental images from a spoof in Family Guy and/or Austin Powers. Or when I say that I want to listen to this album while shaking up a delicious Cape Coder in my Terry cloth robe it was because I learned that was a common practice amongst 1960's males from...

I’ve missed you keyboard thing bro. I’VE MISSED YOU BRO JOEL. I appreciate that you feel as strongly as I, technological invention I tickle daily. *CURTSEY* Dudes and other dudes, life threw its balls on my shoulder and I was caught up in the land of no keyboard and time where guys don’t get the bropportunity to spew their music appreciations. I sorries bros. Shall we? Kiev. Kiev is this band that when I think about them I think about playing air drums until I then have to take over responsibility on the air sax bro. Excuse me bro. Kiev. Kiev is this band that I’ve taken to spending a great deal of time with, and more importantly their drummer. We have a thing bro. I guess you could say it's pretty serious.  Kiev. Kiev is this band that has this fucking...

I grew up around people who made the rap musics. Guys who had no problem with fighting, skipping school, smoking, breaking rules or laws, abusing one's liver, pulling a homemade three footer from the second floor of an abandoned house; rappers were a walking curiosity to me. I mean, you had these socially freeballing individuals who were constantly testing the limits of their environment, basically throwing the middle finger at school or a job, but they were knee deep in fucking poetry bro. Skipping school where they were dealing in prose and iambic pentameter for a letter grade only to drive around listening to Ghostface and Sage Francis acapellas. Sure the subject matter was delivered differently, but we're essentially talking about the same masturbation of words for pleasure. There...