Lord Huron

I'm not someone who should be gushing over an album like Strange Trails.

Historically speaking, I shouldn'tve even started listening to Lord Huron in the first fucking place.

I judged this particular book by its cover, and because its cover reminded me of my Great Aunt Lea's house on Christmas, I gave the shit a single spin. But then something weird happened, I didn't take it out for an entire week. And then I managed to whip it out in places I normally wouldn't whip out music I normally wouldn't even whip music out in, which isn't normal. (*Yes, I could edit this sentence, but fuck you bro, it's not like I'm wearing Crocs or some shit. JUDGE ME THEN.)

A few days after I got bit by Lord Huron my youngest son, the boy twin, wouldn't stop punching himself in the crotch when it was time for bed. See, he's unsure of why his penis feels the need to have a mind of its own, and rather than just accepting the whimsy, wonder and constant asking of the question "why?" of #penislife, he's fighting it pretty hard (#doubleentendre). So I did what any dad would do who has already explained erections and how you have no control over your penis, only how you respond to what your penis feels the need to do on its own, I laid down next to him, hushed him in a calm voice, rubbed his back and hit play on Strange Trails on my cellular telephone.

The calm Lord Huron provided a father and son, in such a moment where an innocent young penis was being accosted by two tiny fists of tiny fury, was almost instant. There's this resonating comfort that's just beaming throughout the entire album, yet for those of us old enough to know that even the most precious of moments are shrouded in acts of unspeakable evil, it's a mere distraction from the potential of the great evil. While I was laying there staring at the ceiling fan slowly plod along, aided by the light from the hallway spilling in from the crack in the almost closed door, I connected with why music is as important as it is in the first fucking place.

This music shit, that our entire SYFFAL site is devoted to, is the most necessary of distractions. Without the escape that albums such as Lord Huron's new new provides, how would my young son be distracted enough from his first few thousand boners to embrace the sleep he so desperately needs?

Laugh if you must, but Lord Huron is responsible for this particular GRAB YOU BY THE SHOULDERS AND JUST SHAKE THE SHIT OUT OF YOU that we all need once in a while to just fucking stop whatever it is we're doing that we should just fucking stop doing. Whining, crying, throwing a fit, coughing, worrying, lying, cooking with canola oil, obsessing, yelling, PUNCHING YOURSELF IN YOUR DICK; all of these things you should stop doing if you've been doing them for any length of time beyond just an occasional second.

Sometimes you stop on your own, but Lord Huron is now like my BFF who can somehow privately tell me I'm being a fucking dick and need to somehow check myself before I somehow wreck myself.

The night immediately following the Night of a Hundred Cock Punches there was a bunch of tornadoes blowing through Illinois and my wifepiece was all scary berry, so I offered her two shots of tequila in quick succession and then the promise of cuddle puddle. After checking the path of the tornado for the 88th time and confirming we weren't in as much danger as it sounded like others near us were in, we made our way upstairs to bed. As soon as we were properly nested I whipped it out (my phone) and hit play on Lord Huron again. With the house swaying, and every shingle, window, joist and wall loudly slam dancing, the song that immediately came up was "The World Ender", which I agree, wasn't a good song title to accidentally hit play on during a storm such as it was last week.

But regardless of the song title, the beautifully flighty, sadness drenched joy guided us towards our rest like a hit from a bong made out of a 57 Chevy. The kind of bong you would only find in your dreams where you actually visit diners just to order a "malted" and like the feeling of dangling your feet while seated in a stationary red pleather stool at a counter made from a space aged polymer that manages to always look slightly moist.

The slightly cheery, yet creepy vibe from this band is fucking addicting. It's like Paul Simon and Roy Orbison, both with Chris Isaak's penis, completely draped in, yet naked Nirvana album cover swimming, in a late 50s technicolor reverb that, even if you've seen every episode of this fucking show, you'd rather watch reruns than change the channel. It's like being out of the country and nothing is in fucking English and while trying to go to bed you try the six TV channels one last time and you actually land on that Johnny Bravo episode of The Brady Bunch and it's the fucking best thing ever. That comfort. That's what this fucking album feels like.

I won't tell you what songs are the most comfortable for me, because they're all somehow fucking pillowy and subdued and chillballs, but they aren't uninteresting by any means. Matter of fact bro, I feel pretty fucking interesting for being able to recommend this album to you. Are you planning on enjoying a nice Chiraz while giving this shit a spin bro? Can I recommend a Pinot that my wife's been beaming over in its place?

Lord Huron feels like the album cover looks. But I'm working in a roadside diner wearing a paper hat and pastel pants, and the broom that I've been carrying around since I hit play on this album has already been my guitar, my mic stand, my rifle, my horse, my love (wearing a poodle skirt that somehow complements my pastel pants bro).

Oh, and the song "Fool For Love" made me Molly Ringwald in slow brotion just a minute ago I should add.

I fucking love this fucking album. You should fucking see if you fucking love this fucking album fucking too.