Moderat

I've loved the shit out of Moderat for a few years now. 

Sure, their music is recognizable to me instantly, but it's the indescribable way I feel when I'm listening to Moderat, not just their specific sound. 

The drums always feel like they were sampled from the end of the world's war drums being struck by timbers from Noah's ark, the vocals are always hauntingly comfortable, and the synthesized textures that make up the drapes and curtains of their songs are so fucking far removed from the rest of modern music that it simply couldn't be anything else besides Moderat. 

Their latest album III, comes after the fucking phenomenally addicting II back in 2013. I ruined that fucking album by leaving it on repeat for the latter half of the summer and the majority of the onset of cold weather. Even when the album wasn't playing I was listening to it because of how well their sound pickles stuck and oozed down my ears' walls. 

The first obvious trait of III that I'm thankful for is that there isn't that instant obvious call to a dance floor that I've been too busy to step onto. While my head and feets aren't sitting still, the immediate chill of "Eating Hooks" is so deliciously smooth I found moving onto the next track and the rest of the fucking album a hard pill to swallow. I wanted to sit inside of this song forever. The layered vocal is both medicated and meditative, and the hissing swirls of the production take the near-simple meter of the track and somehow conjure up the mental image of a train moving at a hundred kilometers an hour but the movie playing back at half speed. 

"Running" has the quick build and sudden drop of a movie soundtrack's chase scene that ends in a slow motion pillow fight. The plodding maraca over the pulsating synth paints a perfect picture for looking over your shoulder. This song is nothing but the most welcome of paranoia. 

When the third track "Finder" finally opens up about a minute in, I already have my hand out the window like in the fucking movie Clueless. The fact that a completely instrumental track would drop so soon into such an already perfect album is like telling me you're going to pay me for drinking tequila and masturbating. It's just super sweet of you bro. I ADORE beats that aren't pestered with those pesky vocal pests, but I love them even more when they're this fucking fat. 

But when track four, "Ghostmother", drops I'm already hugging myself and beatboxing those fucking drums. Fuck. The fact that the drums are telling us that walls are about to crumble, and the vocals are serenading each brick as it disintegrates under the force of the next brick behind it, bro that's just the gravy poured all over this shit because the meat of this banger is the layering of those background vocals and them fwips, fwoops and zooms. Jesus balls on a beat up newborn baby shit brown Buick, those fucking drums tho.

On "Reminder", the galloping drum, deepened vocal sample, and cartoon brake squeal sound like a familiar Fred Flinstone gaining traction in his foot powered sedan under a slow-mo'd Willlmaaaaaa and the sound of the dinosaur signaling the end of the workday. 

"The Fool" is the track where I ceremonially undress myself and marinate tonight's steak. Sure, it's erotic and sweaty, but the secret ingredient is cumin bro. BAM.

The first time I heard "Intruder" I wanted to write an email to both Moderat and Mutemath and ask them to consider working together, because these drums and those pleading vocals are so perfectly a mix of both Moderat and Mutemath that I think Muderath would fucking murder. SOMEONE CALL SOMEONE AND MAKE MODERAT AND MUTEMATH TEAM UP AT LEAST FOR ONE SONG. 

Seriously, someone call someone for me.

I could continue to suck off each track, but I think it's important to ask you to trust me. If you're into beats and you like well done vocals that are almost underused, which makes you yearn for even more tracks with vocals, shit dude, buy this immediately. 

I want nothing more than to play drums on my steering wheel to this fucking album for the rest of the summer, and it ain't even hit 70 degrees yet. 

Seriously, go put on "Animal Trails" and count how long you can keep your hands off your lap drums. We're talking fucking milliseconds.

Moderat. Fucking amazing. Again.