SLIDE
I found a photo of myself from 7 years ago and it was a strange experience, partially because getting up at all these days ages you 7 years. Nevertheless, in these mind bending times, it’s important to remember that there are no substitutes for mental contortions quite like thinking about where you were when the photo was taken, how far you’ve come, and the anxieties you had that are no longer anxieties. Accept no other substitutes for mind bending, my friends. Well, maybe this TikTok from Nathan Apodaca, but only because it is pure in intention and rich in spirit. But the point is that it’s all happening. It’s all vibes.
The Sword - Acheron / Unearthing the Orb
Mrs. Piss - Downer Surrounding by Uppers
niquo - Rest Easy
Playboi Carti - Magnolia
Gorillaz - On Melancholy Hill
Machine Gun Kelly & Halsey - forget me too
Sonic Youth - Tunic (Song for Karen)
Saba - LIFE
Stimulater Jones - Water Slide
Queen - All Dead, All Dead
The Sword are caveman metal of the highest order, operating in that swords and sorcery aesthetic where sci-fi and fantasy can peacefully coexist. Warp Riders is allegedly a concept album about an extraterrestrial archer from the future (or the past, it’s vague) but the real reason to spin it is for the riffs. The instrumental “Acheron / Unearthing The Orb” introduces us to this cosmic tale with zig-zag guitar heroics, palm-mutted attitude, and thunderous drumming. It’s big dumb fun at warp speed, for all masters of the universe.
Self-Surgery is an incredible marriage of the sacred and profane. If you don’t believe me, just look at the rapturous NFSW album art. Shock value aside, Chelsea Wolfe and long time touring/recording drummer Jess Gowerie have stitched together an ugly, muscular album that sports confrontational and primal aggression. “Downers Surrounded By Uppers” features a charging riff that could have only been conceived in a medieval dungeon, splitting the difference between gauzy shoegaze and nasty gutter punk before the pummeling chorus hits with Wolfe, screaming, “Do you want it baby / Do you want it now…” Yes, Missus. More please.
If you’ve ever wanted to float into nothing, check out niquo. The jazz-inspired guitar ripples, the pillow-cloud click-clack, it’s all here—primo beats to study/relax to. But more than that, it feels like it’s been plucked from an older world. It’s not a stretch to imagine yourself on a Mediterranean island, boating from dock to dock at your own pace because what’s the rush?
“Magnolia” is the sound of falling asleep on a Saturday night, crushed by a gravity blanket, blasted because of your big boy brownie (you know the kind), and forgetting to turn off your Playstation. Nobody is going to mistake Playboi Carti’s flow for Black Thought but that’s not the point. The digitized apathy of “Magnolia” is as propulsive as is repetitive, as busy as it is languishing. It operates in the in-between, the buzzy keyboard stabs phasing in and out of nowhere, purposeful purposelessness. This is the perfect party music for people with nowhere to go, fantasizing about the life they used to lead. Who among us, amiright?
I’ve always found Plastic Beach to be the most rewarding experience from Gorillaz. I think it’s because there’s a playlist quality to how the album was assembled, from hard synth pop, to breezy indie. The flirtations with hip-hop slide in naturally (I always forget Snoop shows), making it easy to genre hop in Damon Albarn’s head and worry less as to whether or not he’s a good songwriter (I think he’s fine but your mileage may vary). This is all to say Plastic Beach was the first time Albarn stopped referencing other artists and started really focusing on genre curation with his own arrangements. “On Melancholy Hill” is one of the more straight forward entries here, with its hard programmed beat and loopy keyboard hook serving up a tropical island planet from outer space. The whole song is evocative of a cosmic “Kokomo,” somewhere that rests outside of time that’s as blissful, and unbelievable, as a double sunset.
I don’t profess to be a Machine Gun Kelly expert but his new album will make you long for the salad days of Jerry Finn and Neal Avron produced pop-punk. A lot of those early aughts pop-punk albums don’t get enough respect because of their air of immaturity, and while that isn’t really fair, the precision and weight that those albums have shouldn’t be discounted from a sonic perspective. “forget me too” hits on all the touch points: this song is full of sugary and bouncing choruses, oozin’ ahhhs, quippy kiss offs, and the unabashed fun that helped me and many others get through our teens. The bigger surprise is how well Halsey’s Hayley William’s impression provides an energetic counterpoint to Kelly’s sad sk8ter boi delivery. They have real chemistry and it would be great to hear Halsey try her hand at this style as part of a larger project. The music itself isn’t new or far removed from Enema of the State, or The Young & The Hopeless, but if you close your eyes, you can almost run you fingers across your Hot Topic studded belt and smile because the dual vocals are about to come in.
“Tunic (Song For Karen)” is a maelstrom of confusion. Sonic Youth’s “no wave” approach to noise has been labored over to death but nobody seems to focus on Kim Gordon’s writing, which explores ego death through the lens of leaving to tour in a band. I’m probably the millionth writer who’s described the guitars as “swirling,” but Gordon is in the eye of the storm, strong, plain spoken, and bittersweet as she explores the grief that occurs when we sacrifice for a life of meaning, in lieu of the traditional roads of our families.
There’s a strange menace to “LIFE,” literally and in the song. Saba’s delivery is propulsive as he fast forwards through harrowing vignettes of desperation, but it’s an unusual arrangement with a twitchy beat and impressionistic of keyboards that echo like ghosts. I suppose that’s the point though—it’s rarely a straightforward path, and suddenly, it’s over.
I don’t know if it’s possible to be scandalized by a song the way Stimulator Jones scandalizes me on “Water Slide.” That keyboard is absolutely filthy, full of g-funk squiggles and neon lust. The rubber bounce on that bass line will get you pregnant. We’re not even talking about the falsetto. This is Miami Vice, out in the club music. This is leisure suit chic. Have fun.
News of the World tends to be overlooked in Queen’s discography, mainly because of the 1-2 punch of “We Will Rock You” and “We Are The Champions,” two stadium-filling bangers that will be broadcast on loop by a floating US satellite once the inevitable heat death of the sun overtakes our solar system. That said, News of the World, balances the band’s stadium aspirations with chunky blues and stately ballads to provide a wonderful portrait of the most subdued aspects of their sound. “All Dead, All Dead” is one such gem that never feels properly recognized, from the restrained choral flourishes to Freddy Mercury’s gentile piano. Brian May, usually known for his flashy multi-tracked solos, provides color rather than fireworks, with swelling lead work that coyly sighs with the song’s porcelain reflection of disintegrating love. If only all romantic ends were soundtracked this beautifully.
Originally published October 4, 2020 as part of Hella Vibes.