Tides of Man

Post rock is one of my vices.

I chose the word vice because it isn't like it's a hobby, habit or anything that actually makes me a better father or employee or human, post rock helps me not pay attention. Post rock helps me sit among the assholes and imagine them as little cubes of cheese, strategically melted to resemble rock formations in far off lands. I can look right through people if situated with the right soundtrack, and post rock has an 80% success rate when it comes to taking me from present to absent, or involved to oblivious.

Yet, before you assume I'm saying muthafuckers can't get shit done when post rock is in the brostereo, let me describe the other half of the post rock listening experience. You're in tune with whatever is weighing most heavily on your mind, but in a sort of cinematic highlight reel where shit is just easier to understand. Decisions aren't as strenuous. The difficult seems less so. Complications turn from near impossible to just something else to figure out.

But then in both situations (whether it's assisting in you paying attention or distracting you from paying attention), there's a sort of gradual eruption, a boiling over, an inner realization, a subconscious dawning of emotion.

I've been fawning over my latest post rock erection for almost a month now. And whether I'm turning off the brain on the drive home, or I'm reading and digesting the shit for the next city meeting, Tides of Man has been handy for putting me on autopilot, in addition to the kicking ass in the mental clarity department.

Most ungodly cinematic music requires your constant attention for it to work as it was intended, but this newTides of Man album, Young and Courageous, is fucking perfect for everything so far. The swiss army knife of the post rock genre at this particular juncture here in 2014, I'd say bro.

Those of us who appreciate a mental massage cookie will appreciate the fact that ToM's YaC comes complete with relaxing rubbing the shoulders of calming, intensity copping a feel all over the supple breasts of concentration, fucking balls out awesome videotaping fucking hell yes fingerbanging fucking RAWK in its parent's bedroom.

For those of you like me, who appreciate and pay attention to how an album progresses from track one to track done, I'll have you know the first five tracks were easy to not pay attention to, but track six (Eyes Like Strange Sins) until track eleven (Measure Your Breath) are unbelievably fucking impossible to not look away with your ears they're so fucking immaculate. Layered and emotional, when these songs start to peak you can actually feel the weight of it on your back, almost forcing you to hug your fucking stomach and grit your teeth.

The first time I listened to Eyes Like Strange Sins I wasn't aware of how my body had gradually been contorted until the nearly eight minute opus was completely over. If you're curious, I came to on the floor of my master bath in a fuzzy blue robe wide open with my eyes closed and my arms above my head with a creepy ass smile on my face while my shower warmed up passed warm and on into the wasteful category.

The delay effect on the guitar around 2:20 on the track We Were Only Dreaming is some of the tastiest shit I've heard on a post rock track in recent memory. Not only is the crispness of the fucking drums just disgusting, that guitar coming up in the background is just fucking rude. When this song hits its peak I was chubbed, but as it coasts into the outro I am full on bonez and I'm smiling like I just gave birth. (Because people who've given birf smile bro, cmon.)

The eighth track Hold Still ACTUALLY STARTS LIKE THE YO GABBA GABBA SONG "HOLD STILL" CAUSE AT THE BEGINNING IT GOES "HOOOOOOLD STIIIIIIIIIILLLL" AND THEN EVERYONE GOES "WIGGLE WIGGLE WIGGLE YEA! WIGGLE WIGGLE WIGGLE YEA!". Hell yeah Tides of Man bro,

Track ten, Parallels, is the best way to meet a new drummer for a band you've never heard before. I swear to Brando squeezing into one of Del's sleeveless hoodies this dude is a fucking spaz of the best kind. From brushes to sticks to snares to toms, this dude has been gracefully hiding his drumballs the entire album, but shit at the start of this track he's just flapping and flopping his drumsticles fucking everywhere. Worship this guy someone. Come on.

So yes, the first part of the album suits me well when I have other things to pay attention to, but the last six songs are just BALLS.

Buy this album and then tell me why I need to sequester myself alone with a bottle of boone's farm and the first five if you feel different, but for the love of drumnads, and beautiful instrumentation, buy the Fuck out of Young and Courageous from Tides of Man.