of all the nouns why? is my favourite at making pop music. saw where? in stereo last week and he was rubbish. when? was okay but he’s a conjunction… and don’t get me started on how?
ho. and. ho.
essentially what you got last night was full on technicolour big band glowering pop. like what the flaming lips specialise in (well before embryonic rolled into town). whereby mangling and caressing yr standard voice keys strings and skins into off-kilter nuggets of shiny musical schlurm. which is to say a lovely warm blend of folky geetar fingerpicking, psych-rawk howl and fifties reverb over a sunnydelic melliflous wall of spectorish keys wonderfully at odds with the gloomy surreal sobriety of the lyrics.
it feels exciting touching your handwriting, getting horny by reading it and repeating poor me, intently staring at the picture of your feet on the sticker at the r. crohn’s exhibit, i wonder who’s sicker, jerking off in an art museum john till my dick hurts
highlight (among many) was watching the hairier wolf do percussion with a multi-tasking loose-limbed and floppy but rehearsed corsano-ish flair. still a bit of hiphoppery amongst the skewed poppery but dammit i’d like to hear more of that glitchy snapshot oaklandazulasylum kindof thing. it ended (unfortunately as these things must) with crushed bones, probably my favourite why? track so thanks to the fella for shouting that out. and with the gloriously rhythmic 21st century from the hymies basement record. everything that i fucking love about (pop) music. right here. cheers fellas.
oh yeah and the evening started off with some acoustic strum and mumblery from elder wolf sibling, who chucked in a mississippi john hurt song in the silver jews indie folk mould. his solo side - jet lag - is out now on anticon. he’s a multi-instrumentally talented bastard this one. fleshed out with tonnes of things into some kinda garage pop leonard cohen affair. it’s ace. but morally, is it okay to revel in someone elses morose post-divorce blues?
and your eyes are slits in bags of fat, and your eyes are pissholes in the snow. fuckit if that isn’t how my head feels this morning…
