Since Salem officially closed
down Summer '09 with their anti-beach jam Frost, a chill has spread throughout the internets.
Luke Jarvis, the lascivious young fellow behind the sordid Sexbeat record-
and
-party machine has teamed up with some dudes from Hush Arbors to
create a band
whose name helpfully explains the type of jams you will be listening to and the optimum
season
required to appreciate said jams. Their rad debut album, Blood In The Coffin, is out soon and look, they write songs about
Kevin Arnold's
girl's skeleton. Awesome.
Here is something special.
If you've ever stared broken-hearted from a train window as frowning forests fly by then you
already know what it sounds like. Phoenix usually soar, but this is full of
sorrow. Banhart adds his own tear stained
vocals and stretches the original's melancholy middle eight into something poignant. Natalie
Portman, you have a lot to answer for.
Tonight we bring to a close our two day festival of Awesome
Producers Remixing Mediocre Songs. Here the amazing Kwes pushes drums down a stairwell and pulls
sense through a keyhole. Screaming Lights dudes, "the 21st
Century is a modern whore" is not a good opening gambit, but look! Kwes made the name of his
remix look like a ghettoblaster. That's pretty cool.
We're not suggesting Gold Panda is the kind of dude who touches
himself, but he clearly has Midas-like powers so you never know. Here he fondles berserk
Bergenites Ungdomskulen into an
explosive disco frenzy.
A long time ago in a city far, far away... Midnight Juggernauts watched
Space Camp and a dream was
born. But these Australians did not become astronauts, instead they travelled the
intergalactic audiowaves evolving into a kind of Hi-NRG, zero gravity Tears For Fears. A
limited 7" will be released soon by our ace pals at Acephale.
Nanotechnology is not a word you hear very often in songs, but as
you can see from the picture, German Measles
are not regular dudes. This ramshackle paen to perpetuity is taken from their new EP, Wild,
out soon on the eternally excellent Cap Tracks.
Jacques Audiard's new movie Un Prophete
is the anti-Shawshank, a brutal and eloquent prison saga about what you really learn behind
bars. The soundtrack is amazing too. From it, here's Jimmie Dale Gilmore's
serene stab at a standard.
Thanks to the awesomeness of No Age approximately 85%
of bands now sound like they record inside untuned televisions using upturned skips as a
microphones. They are fathers of the Summer Of Rad and as such, the last 321 of summer.
(Let's just pretend today is the last day of summer).
We spoke to Dean about OMD, medical
marijuana and motherfuckers. [Continues...]
Any song that begins with an alarm-fuelled yawn chorus and ends with
a cheery good night is all right with us. Austin's Fach Idiot fill the space between with whispered seducto raps, weird
spoken samples and whirling, freshly flipped classic soul, suggesting they're anything but
one-trick ponies.
What's that, tiny battle-weary elf guy? Your gigantic feet hurt?
You're about to reach the crest of a cloud-cloaked mountain range and you need a suitably
epic and ancient score? Meet the amazing Among The Bones,
he will hook you up. But steel yourself, little dude. Your quest continues and this is only
part one of a projected trilogy.
Tune-Yards is Merrill Garbus who we
went to see in Paris the other day. Her one-woman sampling-assed, ukulele-owning,
Aretha-by-way-of-Sister-Gertrude-Morgan show is amazing. You should try and see her this
week and next across the UK. Check out her crazy album BiRd-BrAiNs and look
forward to the next which we are told will be "like Mary J Blige, but crazy." After the jump
Merrill schools us on DROC, fairy houses and shape notes. [Continues...]
Bombay Bicycle Club look like nice, clean indie
boys, but they don't sound like it here. Paul White
sucks them into his hall of mirrors and spits out a macabre mob of wild-eyed,
doom-stepping stalkers. [Note to all nice, clean indie boys: get Paul White to
produce your album.]
As this song roars out of the blocks it's easy to imagine Not Cool as a
band possessed. But as they thunder wonderfully through their 79th awesome rhythmic change
it's clear the beast in these dudes just needs to be exercised, not exorcised. Get their limited-edition single now.
Just when we were starting to worry about the lack of
quality oompah music sung by wacky cartoon Euro-munchins, here is Barcelona's
brilliantly named Internet 2 to plug that Godi-shapedgap. Get the album here.
On Saturday we went to the awesome Offset festival. We can't
remember any of it,
but we do know we arrived too late to see Spectrals, a
wonderful one-man
wall of sound from Leeds. We are idiots, learn from our mistakes and revel in his bombastic
surf-psych
throughout October when he plays shows with The Big Pink, Sick Alps and Cro
codiles. Here is
a track from his new EP on Suplex Cassettes. It rules. We spoke to him about Diana Ross, swagger
and doo-wop. [Continues...]
In which HEALTH go boomtime with a slick clip featuring all the things we love like hot
models/crowd surfing/multiple Buddhas/formation dancing that looks like slow marching/slim
microphones/fringes combined with hoodies/giant vinyl pictures of Japanese women/toll phone
lines/and blood, lots of blood. Awesome.
Some bands are so busy
running around dark beaches they only have time to give the briefest of answers to our
321
questions. The Drums are one such band,
but like their punchy, uber-rad surf anthem, these answers prove there is no direct
correlation between size and potential for awesomeness. [Continues...]
"Heart racing. Shooting straight up. In bed. 3:30pm. It's hot. The
fan
isn't working, and yesterday, the AC exploded. If you get out of bed you have to get out of
bed. To get out of bed you have to get out of bed." This is the beginning of a mail from Tearist's awesome
Yasmine Kittles. She's talking about their claustrophobic fever dream Closest Furthest, a
piece of conceptual punk-art wrapped in unsettling honesty. "This song happened exactly the
way I sing it," she says. "Every line."
We don't know if Perfume Genius's
chick on the side said she got
one on the way or if he near cried when he got that phone
call, but his brittle, baleful ballads contain countless other confessions. Alone at his piano he
sings about sex and death like Sufjan with all the pep punched out of him. After the jump he
tell us about "a wet dream with Freddy Krueger in it." [Continues...]
We have just gotten a wake-up call from the Nintendo Generation.
This is Computer Lab's
world now. The world of the electron and the switch; the beauty of the baud. Yes, they are
criminals.
Their crime is that of curiosity. Angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly
connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night. Spandex: it's a privilege, not a
right. Hope you don't screw like you type. Hack the planet.