Articles

I love right now. Some random band that doesn't suck balls just sent a link to a single titled Redwood, and it's unbelievable. Seriously, the way the drums welcomed me in with the galloping I was already hooked and I hadn't even heard the vocals yet. Imagine starting a track with Andrew Bird, with the aforementioned galloping rhythm, but then add his trademark pluckage and a guitar lick that makes one twiddle some invisible air strangs, and then what's this? KICK ASS VOCALS? Ah Fuckballs on a low mileage 96 Camry this song is fucking balls. I can almost picture myself taking credit for how amazing this song sounds right now. So here is your new favorite band, Waterstrider. I've gone ahead and circled and red arrowed you your favorite bandmember below. He is a longshoreman, worked the...

I have a question for you. A serious posit if you will; are you truly disheartened and/or upset about the Grammys honoring Macklemore? Or are you just one of those people that feels the need to hear yourself talk so you dive head first into whatever brand of faux outrage people get lathered up about to avoid addressing the crushing reality of living? If you are the former grow the Fuck up and if you are the latter you most certainly are the worst kind of asshole modern American life has to offer up. The only acceptable answer to this question should be who the Fuck cares. When is the last time the Grammys have been relevant? Really? Think about it. This is an organization that is notoriously out of touch. It is an organization that jumps on board when movements are at their end. They miss...

At SYFFAL we pride ourselves on not being dick riders or mouth pieces for the increasingly annoying boutique Public Relations/indie music industry obsessed with click bait, quick buzz and constantly remaining in the face of the public. We get that attention spans are shorter these days, dollars spent are less than they used to be, and the pie needs to be split 5000 different ways by an ever growing collective of sub-talents that rush to Fuck the next trend in an attempt to stay relevant. Only we don’t give a Fuck about that shit. This isn’t to say we are rebels, because we most certainly are not. We are just secure enough to like what the Fuck we like and if that happens to come from some shitbag with 14 twitter followers making his music in the Salt Lake City suburbs with no attention...

Joel's note: We don't have guest bloggers very often. Matter of fact, I think we've only extended the invitation a handful of times, and most of those invitations ended with us not following through because many musicians find themselves funnier than they actually are. When we asked Broken Anchor (one of my favorite new bands) to guest write a piece through email, as I was on the toilet, I expected to hear nothing back. But then this dude Austin (the string plucker in Broken Anchor) sent this back, and after reading I'm sure you'll understand why this dude might come back at least once a month, because HE'S ACTUALLY FUNNY. And he's actually fucking talented, so let's all grab our leather pants and read what a rock musician says about whatever topic I initially asked him about. ME NO...

I'm very glad we've decided to bring back our columns again. "Music Ruined My Life", "Love, Dad" both factored heavily in me falling in love with Syffal. It was their unabated brutal honesty. It was their irreverence. It was how informative they were, introducing me to bands through an emotional wormhole of tough childhoods and awkward adolescence, from a place where loving music so much it could be detrimental to your existence and it barely mattered. I decided to call my column, "Wax On - Wax Off". "Wax on" like vinyl maybe, "wax off" like jacking it and this column's probable masturbatory nature. It is also a solid reference to unconventional karate training. I don't know. I'm not one-hundred percent sure what my "angle" is, but I figured until I hone in on a target, given the freedom...

 The topic of the 1990s and the top one hit wonders of the JNCO generation came up recently and spurred a spirited debate that included multiple YouTube streams, mediafire links, pie charts, bar graphs, carbon dating, and challenges of epic proportions. We take this shiz seriously, brah. The subject of "Best" is a subjective one but I pride myself in making lists..and I especially pride my opinions over people who flag "LFO" and "Meredith Brooks" in their best of lists. Those aren't hits, those are shits. Hearing these gross miscalculations I've taken it upon myself to craft the perfectly cultivated list of 90's one hit wonders. The rules are simple: The band had to have only had one hit, it had to be a HIT, and if their whole album was sneaky awesome from end to end than it is off the...

This is probably a bit of a weird thing to hear, but trust me not as weird as it is to say, but Ancient Mith’s amazing new release And The Dead Shall Lie There is exactly what I expected rap of the future to sound like when I was 20 years old…you know like two decades ago. This is probably why I love this album so much. It is an appropriately weird album that is not only disconnected from the modern reality, but is also lighting said reality on fire and then pissing on the embers to extinguish the fire. Obviously an indie release by a white dude from Denver isn’t going to stop the train as it barrels its way to irrelevancy, though it does succeed in creating an alternate time line that is not only awesome but vaguely haunting in the best possible way. The album is a celebration...

Sometimes I want to walk around the backyard barefoot, shorts on, my linen shirt unbuttoned to mid-chest, with a smoke dangling from my lips and a cold one in my hand while hitting Wiffle balls for the dogs to chase. On these days my 5 o’clock shadow is probably the sexiest and most dangerous thing to ever happen on my quiet suburban block, just ask my nosey shut in of a neighbor, I caught you looking Ms. Wilkins, drink it the Fuck up you cat loving minx. During these occasional lapses in judgment and hygiene there is a buzz that builds up in my head, usually low and soothing at the start and eventually turning into a full riot of energy, madness, spins, fainting, and sex; followed by shame, my dogs looking at me cross and needing to purchase new cushions for the lawn furniture. Since I...

The following is something I felt I had to write, because I'm still sad and pissed off about something. On May 10, 2003, I was in the middle of living with my soon-to-be-wife at her parent's house for a few weeks while our townhome was being built. It was Mother's Day. The sun was out. Every window in their crib was open. The fam was all downstairs preparing for a party that was set to start in a few hours, and I was just getting out of the shower. I moistly sauntered in my towel manskirt into my makeshift bedroom, climbing over boxes and shit, towards my pile of clothes. I remember smelling some shorts and some armpits on some shirts, finding just the right mix of musk and fabric softener to adorn my body in when my phone rang. It was one of my best friends who just so happened to also...

Welcome back to our weekly endevour into the world of pop music you silly sons of bitches! This week we get all kinds of freaky, I am talking about hazmat suits and poppers freaky, I am talking Del talking to a girl without his hands in his pocket and looking at the ground freaky. I am talking Joel freaky. Sure it is all pop music that everyone secretly loves, some simply hate it to justify their existance and experiences as somehow more valid because they listen to a Norweggian shit pelican who samples a meat grinder and laces it with bossa nova drums and the drones of meth heads, of course I am talking about Dick here. Why not relish in the simple pleasures like the music that your wife most certain lost her finger cherry to at some 7th grade dance, or as Tom calls it, the best night of...