THE ROOM IS ON FIRE AS SHE’S FIXING HER HAIR
2020 has been one long waiting room visit in the middle of a fire (figuratively and literally if you’re in CA). I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how we’re going to push forward with our lives once health services correct themselves. The limited times I’ve been outside, seeing people from a distance, there’s a weird fear between us. Eye contact is fleeting. Our body language is cloistered and protective, anxious. Opening up to others is going to be a difficult thing to practice at first (once the large risks are addressed) but it’ll be a necessary first step towards what’s next. Good thing we have all this time to ponder what that world will look like.
United Nations - Serious Business
The National - Quiet Light
Hania Rani - Glass
TV on the Radio - A Method
Freddie Gibbs & Alchemist - 1985
The Strokes - Reptilia
Gulfer - Mall Song
clipping. - Check the Lock
Philanthrope & Psalm Tree - Blue, Pt. 2
envy - Rain Clouds Running in a Holy Night
United Nations is the kind of punk, hardcore, powerviolence that is unapologetic in its singular approach to agitate. The supergroup straddles the line of anonymity and scene royalty—punk heavyweights Ben Koller, Daryl Palumbo, and Geoff Rickly have all spent time in the booth and on tour, with Rickly acting as the de facto spokesperson. I feel like it’s my obligation to remind everyone how the line between beauty and chaos is easily blurred. “Serious Business” is Exhibit A, a deluge of blast beats, high-wire tension, and warp speed fury, swirling around an Andrew Lloyd Webber aping bridge that’s as catchy as it is nuclear. When I first heard this song, I was without hope and without a stable job. Now that I have a career, the hope part remains a work in progress in the midst of this devil timeline. Let’s see how the next four years go—this election is serious business.
“Quiet Light” is a song about the moments you won’t get back, where you are forced to be honest with yourself regarding the path you’ve taken in life. The bouncing piano and skittering guitars come across like flashes of insight, hovering above Matt Berninger’s endless well of regret. While the song’s perspective can read as maudlin, there’s space in the airy arrangement that allows for forgiveness or letting go (depending on how you’re operating right now). I’m grateful that I’m no longer the person I used to be, but part of me wishes I could go back certain people with the knowledge have now and address those pivotal moments differently. I guess that’s life though, a flash and it’s gone, echoing in the ether.
Hania Rani provides a kind of ethereal clarity that’s as energizing as it is gorgeous. “Glass” is a fluttering, minimalist piano piece that marries the romanticism of classical music with a special kind of dizzying proficiency. It’s the kind of mental oasis that’s necessary these days, to pierce though the noise with a quiet fearlessness and chart the path forward.
“A Method’s” clattering drum line and cavernous Brian Wilson harmonies take me back to college. There’s a makeshift quality to much of Return to Cookie Mountain that reminds me of the freedom my undergraduate time afforded me—the ability to cut class, play music, write for our paper, and get ready for a theater show all in the same day. I miss having this time because the things we make matter. They are an extension of our values, the world we want to live in, and our best creations come from a place of joy and levity. That’s what “A Method” reminds me of—the chance to reach into the unknown and marvel at the way something beautiful comes together.
Speaking of mastery, sometimes you come across a song that’s so perfect that it transcends greatness. “1985” is literally a song about being the Michael Jordan of drug dealing, evoking the “cocaine circus” Bulls in the process. Freddie Gibbs is unfazed by the moment. He lets the smokey beat come to him, despite the warning from Bernie Mac’s ghost, and delivers an avalanche of vivid brags that are as nimble as they are muscular. This is a master at work; God level flow.
It took me close to 20 years to *get* The Strokes. I think it’s because they aren’t a garage rock band, they are a new wave band. The tension operates differently in a new wave band—it’s jerkier, the freak outs are more controlled, and the focus is on driving melodies rather than breaking stuff. This wasn’t where my focus was in high school but the end result is something of a bait and switch. As ubiquitous as The Strokes were in 2001-2003, I wanted no part of them because I had a conception of what they should be as a garage rock band. With nothing but time on my hands this year (that old chestnut) I’ve become a full convert, which has enriched even my love for The Strokes songs I already enjoyed in passing—like “Reptilia.” The song isn’t anything new or a hidden cut, but it’s wiry and taught. There’s a powerful alchemy at work in the way the rhythm section rises against Fabrizoo Moretti’s kraut rock drumming before the whole thing explodes. Julian Casablancas rages against the apocalyptic dying light and the bass lines don’t get much meaner. This is the perfect track to dance to, or fix your hair, as everything burns.
If The Strokes are streaking straight ahead, Gulfer is a jumble of guitar roundabouts, twisting and collapsing on themselves. Part rubber band jazz, part emo jangle, “Mall Song” is the most melodic cut on Gulfer’s new self-titled record. That’s not a slight, that’s part of the charm. The group creates constantly rotating arrangements that you get lost in, songs that pull you in with their off-kilter, spiraling strangeness.
Deep seated fears stay with you, in your bones, in every unchecked corner of your home. Anxiety works like that too, always present as you chase a conflict that’s all in your mind. It’s a constant state of waiting for the worst. clipping. capture that feeling here, the dread that lingers from guilt and threat alike. “Check the Lock” is seeped in horror core dread, with midnight bass thumps, industrial echo, and John Carpenter synth flourishes. Perhaps what’s most terrifying is the notion that no matter how careful you are, you ultimately won’t do enough to prevent the inevitable.
It’s remarkable how a softer focus can take a dusty, crate digger loop, and add a kind of lightness that makes you feel like you’re stretched out underneath the sun’s gentle glow. Bravo, Philanthrope and Palm Trees. Bravo.
Recitation is the purest distillation of the envy sound—mammoth, scorching, and shimmering. That sounds like an oxymoron, that something so massive in scope can be so distinct, but it’s a testament to how envy have worked to hone their sonic voice and their influence in this space. I’m always drawn to unconventional sonic choices, taking sounds that should flow one way but swerve in another. No matter which way you slice it, there’s no Explosions in the Sky, no Mogwai, no Thursday without envy. There’s a special kind of reverence for those that light the way forward, which is why envy’s music is so beloved.
Originally published October 25, 2020 as part of Hella Vibes.