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[greaterlandscapes]

[greaterlandscapes]

My Dean Blunt Rotation aka High Fidelity Left A Bad Taste in My Mouth

For the past 2 to 3 months, my listening habits were teetering to an end; mostly via burnout by spontaneously listening to local artists daily and less likely of a musical discovery drought, whereas my interests of a certain artist or genre hasn't found its, sort of, "eureka", moment per se. I've been feeling less enthusiastic over the things i listen to since my friends have gradually lost their flare when it comes to discovering/exploring untapped parts of the music realm. Thus, in return, my enthusiasm not being reciprocated. It leaves an empty feeling from someone who has been yearning social interaction, may it be media being latched on the topic - it's a feeling that's been guilt-tripping me ever since I was stranded in the other end of the metro. I feel closed off, exposed to the crippling loneliness the lockdown has punished us: a defacto solitary confinement in a national level. Our act of staying online is also an act of staying alive outside.

To be fair though, it's a valid move to not boomerang compliments/gripes over an art you haven't consumed due to someone's autonomy. Your able body being to consume the art you wish to finish with free time is a luxury in of itself. The art is then failed to serve its purpose to reach its goal: You have squiggly lines heading straight to oblivion rather than swirling in the earlobes of a wandering cyber nomad. We, eventually, need to find something that could help us exit, rather than escape, from capital. We, in return, do not shut ourselves from the outside. Instead, we then tend to avoid the stress of protocols and outdoor fascism; Not avoid the indoor liberalism that is eating us alive and online. It's a capital punishment we never knew we signed up for ever since the onslaught of the virus and the state. Art for art's sake is nonexistent now, always has been, it seizes to ever since we went inside. Feeding off of a holographic meatloaf coming from a glowing screen. We have a real-life Karen acting as a nightlight in our rooms.

The COVID lockdown made us listen to music — both for better, for worse. For one, it made us pass most days. You could say the same for any sort of media: film, mixed media art, or whatever pre-Covid activity that sprung up during our time in isolation. For music, however, there was an uptick of new listeners that made others Wheel-of-Fortune the fuck out of their music discoveries in sites like RateYourMusic, Bandcamp, or even Sophie's Floorboard. We've continued to expand and became more open change of opinions and be less of a jackass towards someone else's opinions. On second thought, our opinions have been catalogued, leaving more notes than actual footprints of our previous listens. Our new discoveries made new bands and re-emerging bands, bands who faded to obscurity, crawl back in the surface with newfound interest from younger listeners (ie Panchiko, Jai Paul, and Dean Blunt) and this glowing, previously unseen and unexpected overwhelming support from fans of departed artists (ie SOPHIE, MF DOOM)

For the other, we've hogged gratuitous amounts of media, resulting into losing our primary direction as to how we want to consume our media based on the preconceived notions of what we want in our art. There is goodness in becoming directionless when you think about it, but there comes a cost to our identity as music listeners. Instead, we end up widening our tangents, falling in endless rabbit holes, having zero chances to emerge from the surface. In fact, i refuse to call it a "rabbit hole" instead i'd rather call it a "pipeline" of sorts — transitioning casual music fans into a full on, different, unique versions of themselves that would define them when laws and protocols have eased in the outside world. Our act of staying online has either made most of us break our character or enliven our past selves. The music pipeline is now more apparent, stretching the norms of what was once alienated by a silent majority, but now accepted as an acceptable form of expression. The more music we are exposed to has made casual listeners stranged out or react in ways that our personality have betrayed us or deemed not as acceptable to them. Still, not changing anything that was prominent pre-pandemic. Liberal cop behavior is stronger, now more dangerous than it ever was once perceived by the outside world.

HIGH FIDELITY? NO, THANK YOU.

Imagine a situation inside of a record, pre-pandemic of course, where you do not feel like lifting a record out from the shelf, instead, you window shop just for the sake of windowshopping. Capital and media made us think that going to record shops is a semi-productive activity. The age of discovery has died ever since High Fidelity romanticized and normalized the incelage of horny record diggers. Does this movie age well, yeah sure it does, for old 90s nerds at least. But did it translate well over in the past 20 or more years of events and tragedies that unfolded in pre-9/11 America? No it didn't. It was an age of free expression, only liberals would dream of whenever they take a sip of Guinness beer in their favorite dive bar.

Mind you, over a couple of months ago, it was my only chance in seeing why this movie was the talk of the town back when it was released. There's music, yeah, and attractive leading leadies, yeah, it has everything a 90s kid would love to salivate and drop their gonads over while they watch this movie. I obviously did not live to see the movie on opening day but i could imagine the scent that came out of that movie theater with attendees donning windbreakers and The Who shirts with popcorn dressing stains on their plastic cups. If there was a Filipino counterpart to this movie, i'd bet corporate champions Eraserheads and Rivermaya would soundtrack their music over and have either Tado or have Boy 2 Quizon, but i sense it to age like milk more than it could age like fine wine due to the senseless jokes one can execute in a Cubao or Cartimar record store.

John Cusack is obviously the incel in question here: a damaged, vengeful ex who constantly fails to live his partner's expectations and weaponizes his personality over the situations that has nothing to do with his interests. I spent the entire time being absolutely disgusted over the spineless responses of John Cusack's leading character. The movie then treads on flashbacks with John Cusack's failed relationships and what he could do to move on from each and one of them. If i could stand a SONA for 3 hours then I can't stand John Cusack being the dull entry point to incel, making more reasons why you should hate record store clerks who don't give an iota of shits to someone's inviting rapport. High Fidelity is opium for massive music circle jerks who can't take a single breathe of fresh air or a single quota of touching grass. There's more targeting weak and inferior guys and hot women who dump dumb overconfident dudebros more than the actual "music recs" in the entire movie. The more I think about this movie, the more I realize how our personality is in line towards Dick, the record store being unmercifully dunked on by the movie's two leading characters. He's an angel in the world of cynical bastards, witnessing both demons pitchforking record store customers in the ass while they're purchasing the latest Sonic Youth album.

I believe that Jack Black, the dark horse of High Fidelity, has a pleasing personality more than an irritating demeanor due to this behavior in the record store. In fact, outside of the record store, Jack Black doesn't seem to take the business is your pleasure act pretty seriously. Unlike John Cusack's character he brought his obsession over involving a record in an important memory/point of his life. There is so much stuff that has happened outside of the record store, so much for Rolling Stone and NME being the bible of music at the time, endlessly christening and shilling artists that believe to become the second coming of the Beatles. The music references here however are treated as fluff than it is a mechanism that would drive the senseless plot forward. If anything, there are events pointed out in the event that doesn't have anything to do with the life of the characters.

If anything, this movie did a great job at capturing the feeling of music bros being dumped on the wayside by a mature set of characters and how their current conditions aren't perfumed by the studios' liking of having to Cinderella story the shit out of a bunch of normal record store owners. The reality is in the reaction of one's social capital being invaded and we're here to witness how those reactions panned out in 2021. This is a villainous depiction of music nerds being the salt of the earth, the bane of all media discussion, still reflective of the insufferable salt of cyberspace found in music forums like 4chan and RYM. High Fidelity is a pipeline of 90s musicology, a dreaded fever dream of an owner waiting for the decade to end, trends ossifying and re-emerged by the hands of nostalgia-savvy individuals. It was, at its time, every music-movie nerd's excuse equivalent of Scott Pilgrim VS. The World. There are memories worth remembering and cherishing, and this movie isn't one of them.

DEAN BLUNT, WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK

In the past two weeks I've been fancying myself into sitting down and listening to different projects from the ever elusive, UK-based sound artist Dean Blunt. The first time i chanced upon his music wasn't too long ago - albeit a recent one in the time of COVID - was when I randomly stumbled upon his records at a Spotify recommendations section under John Maus (yeah lol i know the implications whenever his name is mentioned) - but then i was enamored by his online presence so quickly I put everything down and dedicated an hour or two researching about this man's music.

Other than the fact that his album "The Redeemer" wasn't the best record to start off in journeying through his discography: ending up disgusted and borderline bored even and I was more likely to lambast this record's aimless, pretentious art-pop inflections. By the end of the day, it was a preference long solidified by his undying fanbase. According to his hardcore fans, the music isn't really music, evaluating it as a free form of sound art, rather than sticking to a structured and conventional cues; the genre is nullified by most analysts of the arts. The growing interest of the general public towards Dean Blunt's pranks and antics have long appealed to my tastes as a chaotic neutral individual. Pranks that are well executed to piss off UK gallery connoisseurs and entertain ironic attendees who'd shit on the art piece rather than participate in it.

More of the resources I've found about Dean Blunt online: numerous aliases and collaborations that lasted around almost 2 decades. The most notable of all them, at least for my money, are either Hype Williams, a duo consisting of Dean and frequent collaborator Inga Copeland, and Babyfather, an art performance parodizing the pirate radio culture in the UK. I have not delved enough in Blunt's body of work to evaluate everything and what i could synthesize from it. For now, I enjoyed it as a form of entertainment. Well, color me impressed because Dean Blunt isn't clowning around, he, in fact, makes blissful and transcendental music from left to right.

Dean Blunt was the only few artists that made me want to binge on their discography. His movements in his music has attracted this pesky listener who thinks that being mysterious is a plus. I mean, look at me who thinks The Paul Institute, Panchiko, and Burial are the greatest artists that have walked the face of the earth.

The most I've enjoyed from Dean Blunt's discography are his mixtapes and collaborations: preferably his Soul Fire and ZUSHI, both of which were packaged as B-sides or supplemental releases rather than major releases such as the Babyfather project or the Black Metal releases. His knack for blurring the lines between genres still fascinate me as of this writing, and it continues to amaze me how he doesn't seize to compromise his art, he's here to prove a point and it sells quite well despite the lack of direction in his music. Blunt's music has more aggressive and hazy texture than the hollow, wide, soulless structure of art-pop/hypnagogic pop released today. He creates terrains from the rubble of his country's current shortcomings. The music overlaps the actual intentions with abstract concepts, becoming deconstructed down the line. In Babyfather, noise music coincides with Blunt's amateurish rapping. In Black Metal, Blunt isolates himself along with the assisted skeletal guitar playing. Both projects throwing all tropes in a vaccum alongside Blunt, who he himself would sought to become a personification of a musical void.

--

(Excerpt from the Babyfather album review in TinyMixtapes)

--

Dean Blunt is an entity that wishes to become one person, but no, this isn't a figure in a specific art form; this isn't Banksy, this isn't Bob Ong, this is made by one person, clearly it is if you listen closely, and it's been entrancing me ever since his presence was felt on the horizons of the internet. Dean Blunt, what the actual fuck.

[greaterlandscapes]

SIMULATING A BUS RIDE: A ONE WAY TICKET TO A GATEFOLD

The rain was rumbling intensely.

I'm only a few naps in and the tightness of the wristwatch on my tired arm is beginning to form a skinned stamp. The marks that are left are rhymed temporarily with the music that comes out of the earphones; these are barely working as I've entangled the wire in most occurrences during my sleep: I might have gotten the best pair yet ever since the beginning of e-commerce and its continuous affair with promotional "sales" in the online market. Giving the illusory depth a second chance, earphones are built to drown out sound and memory, fading in the distance, opening the flood gates for a small kitchen sink of ideas to drain out.

There's a sound pool beneath me.

I glance at the stained glass windows, its artificial fog creates a free whiteboard and our finger motions help fancy our ideas, whereas a stroke of our vexation is emphasized on the disappearance of our imagination. The music coming straight from our gestations lives but realities determine whether or not these markers live on a narrative that never was. It's the rain that's not helping. Not saying that its anyone's concern unless your umbrella's all contorted from inside out or from the outside in. Our skins is what helps protect our belongings, no "disorganized body" will never not practice a bit of altruism towards devices that keeps us activated. Pulses are patterned with our alarm tones. Our glares match the shift in volume.

But the rain doesn't stop the data, especially if a cellular satellite gets struck by lightning nor it gets destroyed by a madman whose conspiracy theories have contaminated their books with strange numbers and anecdotes. I've bear the brunt in so many situations in my life, it comes to a point where i became increasingly patient of the rides i took home, especially when in situations where rain has been punishingly strong, forging a fear of getting soaked and having your appliance or any mechanical possessions getting drowned by salty tap water from the skies. The music doesn't help mediate the situation. Emotions and tensions rise as it shuffles.

The rain wasn't getting weaker at anytime. What can i do now?

This is the body I choose to operate in as the weather becomes a background sooner or later. The window beside me is not another planet waiting for me. Instead, its a wallpaper waiting to deactivate itself when a proposed lifeline cuts off in transit.

[greaterlandscapes]

metamorphosing complaints of a primadonna

remember the first time you chanced upon a song on television? except its lyrics are altered in favor of the brand they’re endorsing but they still manage to maintain the melody? generally speaking, all of these bands could’ve ran with the bag of money and gave them brand-changing fuck yous while running towards the exit; manifesting a heist only pacino from dogday and whalberg from italian job could ever dream of. a money bag’s just a whiff away from making VIVA records starve. come what may for the struggling artist but labels by the end of the day are begging for the next Ogie Alcasid and Rivermaya shadow vocalist. Literally and figuratively giving record crooks a run for their money. 

However, plaque humpers aside. I digress far off the map in this one - now back to the commercial. 

can you recall all of those moments where ambient has deafened for a quarter of a second and think “is this how i remember joy?” faceless bands who’ve sold their soul to the devil for 40% off a record deal and commercial placements. how lucky of you to remember it word for word, advertising has struck a lightning bolt to god’s dinner table and let all ad bosses feast upon the bastardized and the sell-outs; commodities for another wave of naivetes willing to get their bodies maimed and ripped apart by crows - they eventually become the reverse scarecrow unfortunately. sinful but pitying at the very least. disheartening yet growing pains start to develop. 

[greaterlandscapes]

Punch Drunken Master, Love Fool

“So here we go”

It always feels like it's the first time. Bewitched by the enthralling guttural words that climb up from your heart to your brain, mannerisms are generated by the visual and verbal senses you receive. Sharpness between the lungs and constant tickling of laughter. Your spirit claws your way out of the cave; exiting while hesitant, the light comes near as you leave behind the goblins that gnaw on your patience. You start to forget about those goblins in the cave who are afraid of the light. Trauma dissipates while resentment grows deeper. Stumbling on the pebbles as the exit of salvation draws near, your heart beats faster. Suddenly, a face appears. Memories start flashing back. Nails begin to cut themselves thin. Eyes rotate faster than the axis of the earth. You stopped holding on the rocks that help you climb. The face grows wider, at the same time, you levitate outside of the cave; The sensation is fantastic, rare but cathartic in essence.

“I have a love in my life. it makes me stronger than anything you can imagine.”

Upon revisiting this movie for the fourth time, I couldn’t help but imagine myself wandering around the set of P.T. Anderson’s magnum opus Punch Drunk Love. What lies beyond the great white shade? Behind the lens flare that stares through the novelty toiletry offices of Barry Egan and his crew? The answer doesn’t lie beyond the desaturated colors of its background characters but it is rather focused to its /primary colors/primary characters. There’s a strong sense of blue and also a strong sense of red. Maybe that’s the reason why I was able to learn about love so easily or maybe that was the reason why i was able to identify such colors in excellent display.

Will I find love somewhere else or will I find love in the film’s characters? Only the gradual build and decay of time can tell me otherwise, I can't find love in its characters in the start of the film, only a sense of emptiness has consumed its characters by the second it starts. However, Punch Drunk Love is a film that reciprocates itself rather than making you, the audience, fall in love with it. You witness it. You gently touch the screen knowing it can’t hold your hand back and P.T. Anderson knows how to tease and persuade, leading you to believe that an experience likes this once in a lifetime but no - we learn how to rewind moments like these and play them over and over.

Unaffected by unpredictable weather of emotions thrown at him, Barry was able to face his fears and stand up for himself. Like every typical hero redemption arc, Barry skates on thin ice and was able to achieve everything in a span of 80 minutes. A feat not every storyteller can ever pull off despite of its short run-time.

That said, will I ever relive the moments Barry goes in a fit of rage or when Lena visits the office for the first time? Of course I will. Not only do I want to feel the love between the two but I want to see how they intertwine in the weirdest time of their lives as the film progresses. No boxes of pudding shouldn’t stop the both of them flying around the world nor does the sound of a harmonium seek for melody in the midst of anxious phone calls. It can probably take several verbally abusive siblings or a couple angry brothers to beat the shit out of me to stop watching this film over and over. But so far nothing has stopped me from witnessing love’s growth in its natural state. It always feels like it's the first time.

[greaterlandscapes]

Starry Cat - s/t (2013) [ Bedroom Pop, Lo-Fi / Slacker Rock Twee Pop, Indie Folk ]

Sam Ray aka teensuicide/Julia Brown/Ricky Eat Acid is a lifesaver in many forms, but usually in the bleakest of sonic windowpanes. Known as indie's prolific blue boy, Sam doesn't dream of existentialist sheep nor does he wish a horse galloping over ten wads of lo-fi. The one-off project, Starry Cat, only took 9 tracks for Sam to realize that blue is the warmest color he can get in this project. As low-budget as it sounds, Starry Cat reduces the quality but nevertheless doesn't compromise his effective songwriting tropes. The friction of unspoken feelings doesn't charge, the songs instead gently approaches you calmly.

The project intends to produce the rawest of dramaturgies. A constant murmuring of terms of endearment with 18 minutes of secrets untold through innocent lenses. Scribbling entries until eventually daydreaming of your spirit flying over the mopey lines. There's an underlying pain that Sam portrays here but you know that pain doesn't stem from his demons. This particular type of pain that is necessary to hold on to. Pain that was written under the guise of someone who believes that ghosts are real during their period of infatuation.

Starry Cat is what you see in the night sky. Thus, the nature of this record is a cycle waiting to repeat the emotions you've captured while listening to Sam and his feelings scatter. And just like stargazing, your moments are eternally complete whilst keeping your head up to the universe.

FOR FANS OF: Daniel Johnston, Teen Suicide, early Car Seat Headrest

[greaterlandscapes]

The Umpteens - Turn the Livingroom Into a Dance Floor (1996, Twee Pop, Jangle Pop)

Time to party all over again.

It’s a Saturday morning. Your alarm goes off. Facebook notifications of insurmountable tags from last night’s party. Get off bed. Thoughts running even before the water exiting the holes of the shower. It’s freezing cold. Take your morning coffee. A strange feeling lingers as you light up your first stick of the day. Why do your lips feel bitter? Is it the coffee or is it something you did last night? Have you or have you not did anything silly last night? A muscle memory later, the thought passes; memories become yesterday.

Recalling the past week feels like it's flushed down the toilet after sobering up. Disposing of what was left of a botched conversation. Words are the portals of a relationship, strummed all the same, patterned in a way its becoming more and more familiar as time eventually goes up in smoke.

Sunday. Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday. Thursday. Days feel mundane. Don Lennon’s voice suddenly creeps up in your constant longing. You’re experiencing a similar sensation. Excitement as the kids would call it. Now you’re pumped to see them again.

It’s Friday night now. The Umpteens are playing through the bluetooth speakers. You’re living the life again with your friends. 15 minutes of guilt-free jangle pop and heartfelt intimacy all fleshed out in one listening session. Loop the EP all over again for maximum sentimental daydreaming.

Time to party all over again.

https://rateyourmusic.com/.../turn_the_livingroom_into_a.../

https://www.youtube.com/playlist...

[greaterlandscapes]

BEACH FOSSILS - CLASH THE TRUTH (2013, CAPTURED TRACKS) [INDIE POP, POST-PUNK, DREAM-PUNK]

Whether we like it or not, Captured Tracks have become the landmark label for many hypnagogic pop/indie-punk adjacent darlings in the mid-2010s. The label came a long way by influencing much of the taste of alternative rock/indie pop bands in the West, signing indie giants in the past such as Perfect Pussy, Wild Nothing, DIIV, and Mac DeMarco; Standout bands like Beach Fossils seem to become the tailor fit template of most of your favorite acts that existed after the release of their seminal sophomore album “Clash The Truth”. These stalwarts are pretty much responsible for putting Captured Tracks on the map. They are your favorite band’s favorite band and you wouldn’t be dancing anywhere near a dingy music venue if it weren’t for “In Vertigo” or “Sleep Apnea”.

This is Joy Division meets Wild Nothing. A stage diver landing on the ballroom dance floor. An aggressive fervor rushing to the back door of an 18+ show. The two-step inducing groove attacking a familiar rhythm. The instantaneous feeling of earning a bruise after a mosh pit. A clash of styles rather than a conflicted sonic palette. Their sound doesn’t fool you, it’s a white lie ready to hit you their sonic waves in close range. Beach Fossils are the polar opposites of a contemporary goodie two shoed bedroom music hearthrob — and “Clash The Truth” is only half the battle when you’re on the search for something relatively “dream pop” and “post punk”.

You know damn well it would be a massive disservice to call this record a Real Estate-lite since the highlights of this record mostly consists of catchy hooks, drowsy singing, and amp feedback submerged in foot-tapping basslines that are 5 times louder and 10 times memorable than your usual p4k sophisti-pop bnm pick.

Indieheads be warned: this is something you need to prepare for.

https://rateyourmusic.com/.../beach-fossils/clash-the-truth/

https://open.spotify.com/album/40TgysF80nR70X6NCIvSHz

https://beachfo.bandcamp.com/album/clash-the-truth

[greaterlandscapes]

Duster - Stratosphere (Slowcore, Lo-Fi / Slacker Rock) [1998]

In space, no one can hear your feedback ring — not unless music sites like Discogs and RateYourMusic will hear those dispatches a thousand light years all the way from planet Earth.

The internet brought back a band that's on the brink of obscurity. A lost relic where indie rock was at its paradigm shift. Duster's Stratosphere was about to hit the event horizon. But our immediacy has saved it from being sucked in the black hole. Now, it's arrived on our planet. Ready to transfer their alienating operations of lo-fi/slowcore to the world.

Stratosphere scales from being the backbone of Bandcamp heroes' essential go-to albums to being a benchmark in the underground scene. Without it, droning wouldn't be as cathartic nor the pacing wouldn't be utilized as much just to convey an emotion.

This is post-rock with the razor's edge of punk; An ode to the end of an era; The beginning of a blissful corrosion. Your indie band's favorite indie band is here. Ready to endure another phase of documentation limbo before it turns into static again. But we all know that those transmissions will remain in the interstellar reaches of cyberspace. Forever.

Surely, this will blow you away and leave the tip of your tinfoil hats sparking.

https://rateyourmusic.com/release/album/duster/stratosphere/

https://open.spotify.com/album/6QL4ZFqlmOmwHmuIQVciVJ

[greaterlandscapes]

Panchiko - D>E>A>T>H>M>E>T>A>L

Unknown Retroactive Anon Smoke Screen, Championing The Lost and Forgotten as A Rotting Disc, Another Relic Of The Olden Internet Waiting Patiently To Be Excavated From Its Cybernetic Ruins. Trip-Hop on LSD minus the HAUNTING sequenced orchestras of peak Portishead-era triphop.

D>E>A>T>H>M>E>T>A>L’s body is on recovery mode after being thrown in the dusty shelves of Nottingham. Only to be rediscovered by a digital native.mp3.ONLINE. Was this project released in 2000 or 2020? Our virtual selves agree while our real selves do not. It’s almost as if predictive text knows how to get out of a sticky situation (ex. debunking). A typo doesn’t fail its probability test/ it may or may not be a misclick. Who knows. The EP has engaging songwriting behind its opaque quality. A byproduct of its time has aged like fine wine except stock images of liquor remain to be stationary rather than splinter up in corrupt kiloybtes. The album remains as a stock image of prehistoric internet depository for good measure.

Panchiko is an intentional/unintentional CDinderella story for the ages. For once, the internet has created nothing out of something. Turning an urban legend into a tangible object. Self-made myths cannot be inter-fused with their respective IRL/URL personas. Memories have been generated and distributed illegally, both spectrums winning simultaneously. Producing what was once a hypermnesia now an INSTA-cult classic on the web.

Panchiko has arrived from the aether. The ghosts of the past have come to haunt you in 4k resolution. Make sure to listen to deathmetal.

https://panchiko.bandcamp.com/album/d-e-a-t-h-m-e-t-a-l

https://open.spotify.com/album/7FWEOSHm38Sq7dybOA4w7D

https://rateyourmusic.com/release/ep/panchiko/deathmetal.p/

[greaterlandscapes]

Oneohtrix Point Never - Replica (2011) [Plunderphonics, Ambient, Glitch]

The spectre of DJ Screw and Vektroid looms over Daniel Lopatin’s dusty shoulders. Boston-based composer from the future OPN is an expert at deconstructing these trinkets of the past in a stunning way. Loopages are stitched together, embroidering chopped mouth sounds and dented commercial clips in a single track. Speculating the /relic/ in ‘replica’ has never gotten more 

haunting.

/// 

˙ƃuᴉʇunɐɥ ǝɹoɯ uǝʇʇoƃ ɹǝʌǝu sɐɥ ’ɐɔᴉldǝɹ‘ uᴉ /ɔᴉlǝɹ/ ǝɥʇ ƃuᴉʇɐlnɔǝdS ˙ʞɔɐɹʇ ǝlƃuᴉs ɐ uᴉ sdᴉlɔ lɐᴉɔɹǝɯɯoɔ pǝʇuǝp puɐ spunos ɥʇnoɯ pǝddoɥɔ ƃuᴉɹǝpᴉoɹqɯǝ 'ɹǝɥʇǝƃoʇ pǝɥɔʇᴉʇs ǝɹɐ sǝƃɐdoo˥ ˙ʎɐʍ ƃuᴉuunʇs ɐ uᴉ ʇsɐd ǝɥʇ ɟo sʇǝʞuᴉɹʇ ǝsǝɥʇ ƃuᴉʇɔnɹʇsuoɔǝp ʇɐ ʇɹǝdxǝ uɐ sᴉ NԀO ˙sɹǝplnoɥs ʎʇsnp s’uᴉʇɐdo˥ lǝᴉuɐp ʎq sƃuɐɥ pᴉoɹʇʞǝΛ puɐ ʍǝɹɔS ſp ɟo ǝɹʇɔǝds ǝɥ┴ 

///

Oneohtrix Point Never and Replica’s sampling is ornamental. Sonic debris buried by heavier sonic debris. The structure is disjointed. All that is mismatched has still found its pathway to perfect harmony. But within its detritus, there’s still architectural wonder to be enraptured in.

///

 ˙ƃuᴉʇunɐɥ ǝɹoɯ uǝʇʇoƃ ɹǝʌǝu sɐɥ ’ɐɔᴉldǝɹ‘ uᴉ /ɔᴉlǝɹ/ ǝɥʇ ƃuᴉʇɐlnɔǝdS ˙ʞɔɐɹʇ ǝlƃuᴉs ɐ uᴉ sdᴉlɔ lɐᴉɔɹǝɯɯoɔ pǝʇuǝp puɐ spunos ɥʇnoɯ pǝddoɥɔ ƃuᴉɹǝpᴉoɹqɯǝ 'ɹǝɥʇǝƃoʇ pǝɥɔʇᴉʇs ǝɹɐ sǝƃɐdoo˥ ˙ʎɐʍ ƃuᴉuunʇs ɐ uᴉ ʇsɐd ǝɥʇ ɟo sʇǝʞuᴉɹʇ ǝsǝɥʇ ƃuᴉʇɔnɹʇsuoɔǝp ʇɐ ʇɹǝdxǝ uɐ sᴉ NԀO ˙sɹǝplnoɥs ʎʇsnp s’uᴉʇɐdo˥ lǝᴉuɐp ʎq sƃuɐɥ pᴉoɹʇʞǝΛ puɐ ʍǝɹɔS ſp ɟo ǝɹʇɔǝds ǝɥ┴ 

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Revel the past they say, brace yourself for the inevitable disarray of what’s to come they say. Replicas mirroring replicas is a never ending cycle. Let the loops decay while it hypnotizes you. They as the future will make you turn your back. They as the past will look back at you.

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˙noʎ sǝzᴉʇoudʎɥ ʇᴉ ǝlᴉɥʍ ʎɐɔǝp sdool ǝɥʇ ʇǝ˥ ˙ǝlɔʎɔ ƃuᴉpuǝ ɹǝʌǝu ɐ sᴉ sɐɔᴉldǝɹ ƃuᴉɹoɹɹᴉɯ sɐɔᴉldǝɹ ˙ʎɐs ʎǝɥʇ ǝɯoɔ oʇ s’ʇɐɥʍ ɟo ʎɐɹɹɐsᴉp ǝlqɐʇᴉʌǝuᴉ ǝɥʇ ɹoɟ ɟlǝsɹnoʎ ǝɔɐɹq 'ʎɐs ʎǝɥʇ sɐ ʇsɐd ǝɥʇ lǝʌǝɹ

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https://rateyourmusic.com/.../oneohtrix-point-never/replica/

https://open.spotify.com/album/1DtXzewBvv5vZBnl3ZmJqo

https://oneohtrixpointnever1.bandcamp.com/album/replica

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EGGBOY - 98 - 05 

or

My Unfathomable Desire To Love This Album Back After A Carcrash

My love for 98-05 is geometric; all the lines, angles, curves and slopes, there’s an unequivocal charm to its melancholic disconnectedness. Oftentimes, I can see it right through the cracks of the disfigured mirrors in the houses you used to be in. Eggboy sounds cliche, and morose to an extent, but its cheerfully heart wrenching in the most emotionally shattering ways wherever you listen to it. Even in houses you’ve long abandoned, it pulls you back in to retell those stories in vivid detail. You didn’t ask for it, but you needed it when time was heavy. 

All of those lonely nights are put to waste in your 4-track recorder, and you might be wondering where all of those feelings went. Diego Mapa’s past in rendering a relationship in the brink of its collapse is somber and melancholic. You’d know that by the end of the day he’s trying to rearrange things where they’re supposed to be, but you just can’t deny the fact that you’ll be lost in the middle of everything. Despite being a professional of bringing a party to the house, this lone ranger persona in torn-up band shirts is the complete opposite of a banger: It weeps and asks for assurance through a tiny amp, grains of distortion and lyrical lo-fi-isms that make you lean closer to its intimacy. Don’t wipe the tears off your ugly face, be proud of it. I’d feel bad if you feel bad about 98- 05. 

98-05′s brimful of catatonic anthems from front cover to back cover. Diego’s sluggish guitar playing drags but picks up the pace early on. How many times do you have to shout “Paalis nanaman” or “Kayang kaya” in cathartic volumes when your mouth’s full of sticks of reds. Uniform tones in dimmed streetlights, lying down on the concrete waiting for someone to answer the door for you. Eggboy’s willing to let you in.

Its 15-tracks doused with seminal “loser pop” —  I could ask for more, but that’s just the sadistic side of me wanting to hear myself be in pain for more than an hour. I guess you could say that I just couldn’t get it over. 

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black midi - Schlagenheim

"History repeats itself, first as tragedy, second as farce."

-Karl Marx

It’s hard to turn down the ambition of KEXP-graduates and No-Wave turn-of-the-decade darlings black midi. The foursome came from the same school and crash landed in a live recording somewhere in Iceland in the middle of the year. Indieheads and Bandcamp lurkers were lucky enough to jizz all over this band when their 25-minute magnum opus opus of a live session premiered in the interwebs. If you were a diehard fan (literally born out of the sweating wallpapers of an underground dive bar somewhere in Brooklyn) of the gothic no-wave yesteryear, then black midi is right here to caress you with blabbering surrealism and nursery rhymes in twangy guitars with seldom unnecessary time signatures. 

(Extraneous shifting of sequences, what are 4/4′s anyway, amirite?)

You wouldn’t resist the pigeonholing, that’s what i learned in music writing. Labeling the artist is as caging them inside a box with a category being written on duct tape. black midi are the type to have a tantrum when you give them a wrong label. You think Primus and Public Image LTD. would be happy to hear their grandchild freak out over a mispelled name? Fuck yeah they will. 80s-90s no-wave/post-rock purists rejoice, i guess? 

“I'd rather die drunk, broke at 34 and have people at a dinner table talk about me than live to be rich and sober at 90 and nobody remember who I was.”

-Andrew Neyman, Whiplash (2014)

Manic drum patterns and groovy chord progressions are unlikely paired with a nasal vocal style that comparatively sounds like a dark sorcerer somewhere in the UK trying to cast a spell at you and noise barrages that go haywire and metamorphosize the standard rock n’ roll structure. A “magnificent purpose”? maybe, just try to make something as neck breaking and satisfyingly tedious as “bmbm” and “Near DT, MI”. 

Schlagenheim forms a circle, but it’s not a perfect circle. These are British lads who want to make brilliant music for gypsies and faith healers, and then they’re making that circle. It’s 2019, and black midi just need to rearrange the melodic freakishness in their elaborate brewage in the scene they’re in. Did they do great in this album? Maybe in the foreseeable future. Does the album make it freshmen rite of passage? Yes it is. 

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“Shoegaze is what I can describe: a penetrating, euphoric, and slanted piece of rock music. I cannot properly describe nor fully justify what shoegaze is ABOUT in a sense where the sound is objective. I so happen to be emotionally affected by one a shoegaze that capitalizes on the definition of a Shoegaze record.

Pasteboard is one of those bands that have lived for a short amount of time and the piece that they have written, recorded, and released had a little amount of attention to the public eye of shoegaze fans in their home country (or that I can assume it only had little coverage in Japan). 

Tracks like “Breakbeats”, “Coco”, “Flipper”, “Freesoul”, “Shoegazer”, and “Slowdive” is what a fan can call a tribute album. Two of the latter songs that are mentioned are testimonies of how these people are changed by ringing amplifier feedback and mumbles on the mic. 

Pasteboard’s Glitter refers to a callback of what they love before, now, and forever. Before covers were a thing, there was Pasteboard that wrote songs that ABOUT the genre they are incarnated as and one about Berkshire-based dreamcatchers Slowdive. 

“Glitter” is what I can call: a love letter, a loving tribute to what is lain in their foundation as artists; An album that creates a purpose for individuals who are looking for an immediate purpose in life.

Shoegaze, shoegaze, shoegaze. I could stare at my two feet while listening to “Glitter. I just need to see if they’re on the ground and are stepping on the right pedals. 

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Turnover - Peripheral Vision

FRAME BY FRAME:

A movie still tells a story from different angles. We still hold the saying that a “picture tells a thousand words” (if not accurate, you completely get the point of this saying) and every frame that moves against the walls where it projects lets the soul of the sound go in different ways. Peripheral ‘Vision’ speaks through a blind theater full of melodies that we find comfortable even if the projector is off. It speaks to us more than it moves us.

“The advantage of a bad memory is that one enjoys several times the same good things for the first time.”

 ― Friedrich Nietzsche

 It’s either our memories resurface or our memories live in the past. The spinning wheel that we know in life keeps on spinning, and Turnover will most likely spin that wheel backwards. Peripheral Vision omits the memories we so wish to remove in our life but those memories make up the people we encounter in crucial moments (ex. A Former Lover, A Good Samaritan, and our Therapists). The former grandsons of pop-punk lead up to a mild release of an alternative sound that consists of atmospheric production, tinkling (not ‘twinkling’ or ‘twinkle-y’) guitars, and collective memories the songwriter of this band initiates in the process of making of this album.

 Our memories, again, become the forefront of our decisions; those regrets loosen up in the long run of our careers. The nostalgia mocks our senses of entitlement of what pop-punk used to inherit in its former cloud of sound.

 Are the members of this band even sure that they want to forget their departed souls of where they originally began and move on from their present body of sound? We’ll never know until we listen to everything what they have to say in the present. From there, their past is already written.

 The moments we want to forget felt sparse between the horizon of those exact moments -- The light that passes through its sonic edges and reverberated vocal effects, the web that hovers over a female silhouette in a dawn-y red brown background on the cover of this album -- It’s almost indescribable. There is nothing written nor stated in the front. But what contains Peripheral Vision makes the listener let go of something that he/she might come back to. Nevertheless, it’s already written before we knew it. Turnover duped us from the very start.