Big Mean Sound Machine

There's this bank me and my kids pass every day on the way to school. The few times they've gone with me through the drive-thru, for routine financial actions bros, they've acquired a Dum-Dum of varying flavors bros. But the flavors of high fructose corn syrupsy balls on woven cardboard sticks means nothing here bro, what this bank has that pertains to Big Mean Sound Machine is a row of reflective windows.

These windows are a portal to the funky ass motherFuckin' throwback soundtrack we be rollin' wit on the way to le schoolio brolio.

The first time I noticed the four of us all leaned back lookin' back at us in motherFuckin' funk heaven, it was a brisk 74 degrees fahrenheit at 6:45am bro. (That should tell you it was sum sum summertime bro.) We were pulling up to a red light, all windows were down, the kids were all lookin' forward, as I peeped our pimposition to my right, I blurted out a "yoooo" and threw my head into the direction of our reflection. My kids did something I wasn't expecting, but it sort of tied the whole room together (as far as the funk was concerned), they looked at themselves in reflection, nodded at their pimpflection, and returned to their originally scheduled position of acting loc'd the Fuck out. We were listening to "Whoa Gosh" at the time.

Big Mean Sound Machine sound like you just caught your reflection in the mirror and you're 77% cooler than you originally assumed you were in the first place.

Big Mean Sound Machine are the embodiment of feeling fucking delicious.

What used to feel more like a cross between Budos and/or Daptone scented incense and a case of ice cold Tecate on a hot fucking Sunday afternoon, is now a luxurious cross between Budos and/or Daptone flavored micheladas and crawfish boil where there are muthafuckers in guayaberas and ladies in yoga shorts. It's just fucking intoxicatingly sexy bros.

Seriously, this latest in the saga of sexual ass Big Mean Sound Machine releases is a beautiful blend of their regular horny sass, but in addition to their ever-maturing instrumental conversations, there's a New Orleans pelvic thrust around every meter. It's like these muthafuckers were playing a basement in sub-saharan Los Angeles or some shit, and a Voodoo king happened to be at the In N Out across the alley and heard their aural deliciousness spilling out onto the street while monster sauce dribbles onto his pert chin. Rather than reaching for a napkin to wipe his furious face, he rattles his bones and the assholes in Big Mean Sound Machine all start sweating from the lower back and tasting cayenne pepper with every blot of the brow.

I wouldn't lie to you bros, the latest Big Mean Sound Machine album is a fucking balls ass motherfucking cornucopia of horn-spat delicacies, and rather than merely being hot to the touch, it's fucking warming to the entire loin region and requires many many concentrated and unconcentrated listens as soon as fucking possible.

Feel that? It's the Lifesavers in my pocket.

I call my erection the Lifesavers in my pocket bro.