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California sample-pop band TV Girl has a new record out. A record that asks the question that most need asking when the time comes for asking the questions that need asking, Who Really Cares? The new project sounds like TV Girl. There’s nothing remarkably different about it. If you liked TV Girl before you’re still going to like them. If you didn’t, then who really cares? The heaving-hitting “Song About Me!,” featuring Maddie Acid, is a standout banger. It has this recess b-a-n-a-n-a-s break that makes me want to procure a milkshake and bring it promptly to said yard. It’s like Zooey Deschanel eating Hot Cheetos and Takis. Munch! It’s like it’s past 8 and there’s a DJ in the auditorium and I’m high on sour straws in the best way that could be intended. It’s like there are still...

As a fully admitted Wolfmother fanboy, I can say with utmost certainty that the second time I saw these hairy fuckers in concert last week was just as memorable as the first time almost six years ago. (If you haven't heard about my first time, it's right thrr.) Towing a magically mythical aura behind them, Wolfmother seem to be the future of throwback rock on record, and the personification of rock expectations (rockspectations?) in concert. While their recorded music has always suggested they'd be fucking monstrous in person, I've been disappointed so often in life that I almost force myself to lower my expectations whenever I see live music.  I do my best in life to make sure I'm always, at least slightly, pleasantly surprised. If I imagine all of the potential sources of "meh" before I...

I didn't sleep for shit last night. I looked at my blinds until my alarm went off at 5am, and then I hit snooze three fucking times, and them three sets of 9 minutes were the best sleep I've had in the last month I tells ya.  What did I learn last night? Three things: 1. My blinds, from windowsill to windowtop, are comprised of 42 individual slats. 2. Around the 17th slat is a slight bend upwards towards the eastern most third of the aluminum slat. 3. I fucking love tacos. All that being said, I've been listening to Norte's "Beryl" since I received it yesterday afternoon, and its pillow-like futuristic city soundtrack sheen is fucking comfortable as shit. I have no idea what they're singing, but the vocal effect is just as cozy as the bed I laid awake in all last night.  What...

This dude Kauf makes electronic music that makes me want to swim in fucking pudding.  THERE, I SAID IT. Not "fucking pudding" bro, I ain't into other people's fluids and shit, but fucking "pudding". I mean that seductively smooth and thickly viscoused delivery vessel for the delicious bro, THAT pudding. Kauf is the mayor of viscosity city bro.  Every fucking song this dude drops feels like I've heard it a thousand times before, and not only is his shit erotically relaxing, it makes me feel like however fucking fast life is flying by me, I still have my Kauf to swallow with my side face holes to calm me the fuck down. It's almost like Kauf understands that life is extremely and uncontrollably fast for most of us and it takes the private performance of slow embrassing Christopher Walken...

DUUUUUUUUUUUUDE. This guy's throat sounds very Chris Cornell, but only if Chris Cornell didn't know he was Chris Cornell so he didn't Chris Cornell all over the fucking song like Chris fucking Cornell fucking Chris Cornells.  YEA, I MADE DUDE AN ADJECTIVE,  A NOUN, AND A FUCKING VERB BRO. I WENT TO HIGHED SCHOOLING. This Jack Berry dude, besides having the perfect name for a CIA/spy action novel protaganist, has one hell of a crisp fucking delivery on "The Bull". Sure, it sounds like maybe it was recorded in a studio worth more than my entire fucking house, but that's to be expected. I mean, check out dude's facial hair in the picture up there? Is this dude's facial hair and birthmarks similar to a clown's make up hot as fuck or are my rock and roll glasses all fogged up from how...

Ifuckingmmediately, this song has me by the balls I keep in my pants. Taking aspects of two distinct sound altars I have come to genuflect in front of and smooshing them together into something that both cups and massages the aforementioned balls I keep in my pants, TUFT not only has the best band name of the day, they're fucking spilling blood all over the aforementioned altars I mentioned before mentioning again my aforementioned balls I keep in my pants. What does Tuft and the song "Stills" sound like? This shit sounds like White Denim and Jason Isbell blended together into a delectable porridge and then masterfully simmered to a nice rolling boil and then served into bowls made of gem stones. THEY'RE MINERALS. Sorry Hank, they're fucking minerals. I love bands I know nothing...

You know when you reach 'that moment' of a song? An emotional climax that gets your undercarriage prickly like a porcupine and it triggers a surge of endorphins all the way to your fingertips? ...the rest of the song could blow, but you listen anyway because the anticipation of that moment is coming get you all fucking giddlywinks.  What if I told you that I just listened to a track where half fucking song is 'that moment'?  Well, I just did. 'Living Hour' by Seagull. 

This almost sounds like Zavala dropped a box of noise on a warehouse floor and he recorded the bits and pieces skittering away from him in slow motion. Then, in a way only Zavala seems to know how to do, he brilliantly sticks them pieces on the wall of my fucking brain and all I can do to escape from wanting it to never end is to keep hitting the play button on this soundcloud page so it never does.  This week is miserable for me, historically, and I've been listening to old Radiohead albums just to have something to yell along to, but this has taken my attention so far past where it's been for the last few days. To be honest, I've been staring at my feet or out into the distance as much as I can recall, at specifically nothing in particular. I needed a way to sort of cut ties with my...

What happened when I first streamed Reaches' new record I Am Alive and Well:  My shorts just hollered peace to my knees and hi to my thighs. I found myself headband shopping. A cool breeze picked up and, while nary a hair on my sculpted head budged, I was comforted by the polyester magic of a neon pink wind breaker. I totally scrunched my socks.  And then something strange began to happen:  The blisteringly freezing air screaming off Lake Michigan began to devour my new found phosphorescent fashion. Something darker emerged, emotive and coated in mascara. Hair, still sculpted, leaked an inky black sadness from its fried roots to its towering tips. My cells softened. My sex dwarf handed me her leash. We made a movie where every scene was an undulating thin English hip bone. I...