A Winged Victory for the Sullen – Invisible Cities

Bread and butter, coffee and cigarettes, whiskey and depression, sex and sweat, Italo Calvino and A Winged Victory for the Sullen.

Sometimes the world offers you perfect yet surprising combinations like a bag of sexy gold: Kapow! Rich and horny? But let’s get real, shit’s been pretty bleak as of late. It’s been hella easy to get cynical. Stuck in our homes, saving the world in our dirtiest sweatpants, as spoiled idiocy tramples maskless spewing Orwellian 1984 type shit. Hear that? Fucking 1984? I’m boycotting use of that reference till the person saying it can tell me the plot or the name of the main character/narrator. Too many motherfuckers throwing shit around without knowing what the fuck it is.

I’ll save you the trouble, it’s Winston Smith.

Luckily, that’s not the case here. Italo Calvino is one of the dopest writers you may have never heard of. In my world he’s up there with the biggest of fucking wigs. I’m talking Texas-sized beehives, motherfucker. Certain yokels know him for best for being hella meta in his book If on a winter’s night a traveler, but that’s barely cresting the surface of the Calvino pool. In his book Invisible Cities (of which this fucking album is based on) the explorer Marco Polo (you know, the guy that made the pool game so famous) is telling stories about all these places he’s been to the ever-pissy and powerful emperor Kublai Khan. Polo tells the story of 55 different cities but it might actually be just one, you know, like telling a story about 55 different blocks and calling that shit the world. It’s a vibrant and perfect book composed by an absolute legend of a writer. Fucking read it already!

So, you might know one half the duo A Winged Victory for the Sullen (AWVFTS) Adam Wiltzie from his glorious co-project Stars of the Lid. And if you know Stars of the Lid, you just shit your pants a little cause fans of this band go deeper than fracking. The other half of AWVFTS is Dustin O’Halloran. He’s basically composed most of your favourite soundtracks (his tracks for the film Lion basically won all the Emmys), he’s released a bunch of solo stuff, and is an all around kickass composer. And these two motherfuckers decided to throw their talents in with a stage show adapting Calvino’s novel. That’s some art, begetting art, begetting art type shit. It’s like the Genesis 5, 11, Andy Warhol, and David Bowie having a week-long kosher sex party.

So, some motherfuckers got a hate on for this album. But I think they missed the point. Here’s a clue: check the fucking track titles. Take for instance the first track, So That The City Can Begin To Exist. If you give half a fuck, and I really do mean half, you don’t even need to read the whole book (even though everyone should) and you can figure out what the fuck is going on. Check it: “The city is redundant: it repeats itself so that something will stick in the mind. […] Memory is redundant: it repeats signs so that the city can begin to exist.” Pretty cool quote, right? And what’s it fucking from? Invisible fucking Cities. So this first track isn’t just about some fucking city, just like in the book. It’s about memory, and forgetting, and redundancies, and all those in-between feelings that are so delicate, beautiful, and evanescent you’re afraid to hold onto them too tight cause they’ll fucking disappear. It’s about how the passage of time goes so quickly after a while. All those years turn into snapshots like all your adventures and memories can turn into simple short stories.

Dope, right?

I’ll give you a couple more examples. Track 3: The Dead Outnumber the Living. “You reach a moment in life when, among the people you have known, the dead outnumber the living. And the mind refuses to accept more faces, more expressions: on every new face you encounter, it prints the old forms, for each one it finds the most suitable mask.” Come on! That’s some deep fucking shit right there! Track 4: Every Solstice & Equinox. “You do not come to Euphemia only to buy and sell…. On your return from Euphemia, the city where memory is traded at every solstice and at every equinox.”

Just like these themes, this music is both subtle and beautiful. It floats like smoke in the air or fog on water. These subtle themes require massive talents with a delicate touch or order to be done right. But you can trust Adam and Dustin with it. Sure, some people like to toss out shit without knowing a fucking thing about it. They jump in all ignorant and flail about like delicate little bitches thinking they understand the ocean by drinking saltwater. They’d tear it apart, make it all about them, make it all grand and showy and probably wouldn’t even reference the fucking text that’s it’s all about. But not these two. Not Dustin and Adam. These guys live in the smoke and dance in the fog like goddamn fireflies. They’ve dedicated their entire careers to the subtle and beautiful. And they’re masters at their craft. Fuck, evanescent feelings are their bread and butter. A perfect combination for a collaborative piece of art.

All right, Already! You convinced me! I’m back! Jeeeeez-as. AKA: The Origin of The Brightly Off-Coloured Discophile

Up the Belukha Mountain, within the Altai Mountains of Tibet, sits a large wooden door. The engravings on it are older than most languages and, somehow, it stands firm and beautiful within the mountain’s stone face. As it’s pushed open, it seems to breathe. Most people are both comforted and alarmed at its warmth considering the temperature and altitude. The world inside that door is not the same it is on the mountain. Grass grows fresh and long on the ground. Butterflies fly together in bundles and change colour at will. A large male elk calmly walks throughout the area as fireflies encircle and land on top of its antlers. Yet, despite all these wondrous things, that’s not what catches most people’s attention. The large tree has various doors and windows within it that don’t seem to be carved or cut, but naturally grown. The tree expands throughout the landscape, growing inconceivably tall at certain points. Its roots jump and climb throughout the earth like a monstrous snake travelling through an ocean. A beautiful young woman, half composed of various flora and fauna, walks through one of the tree’s door. As she shuts it behind her, the tree locks itself by quickly growing a large wreath on the door’s front. The air here feels crisp and electric. The more it enters someone’s lungs the more blissfully stoned they become. And, just off to the right, there’s a small cabin. It’s half-earthed with a lovely little garden out front. The chimney up top plumes clouds of smoke smelling of chocolate and good sex. From inside someone says, “My word, you finally found me. I knew you would, motherfucking audiophiliac, I knew that someday you would come find me.” There’s the sound of shuffling feet from inside. “Here I was just listening to some dope ass shit and yes, you’re right, it’s time for me to leave this fair hut and share it. Also,” the voice continues, “Have you checked out this fucking crib? Look at this shit. Sweet chocolate-Jesus-loving-tom-waits-fucking-Christ, did you know just living in here gets you high as a motherfucker? I barely know where I am. You’re the pizza-guy, right? Wait, can we even eat pizza here? Honestly, I’m asking. Good lord, there’s a monkey fucking a bat outside. Well, maybe there is, I’m not even sure what’s real or a hallucination anymore considering I’ve been stuck in here since … hold up, did Margaret Thatcher really resign as Prime Minister? Also, fucking a bat is a perfect way to start a pandemic, just saying. Goddamn hippies with all their free-fucking-love. It’s like Tolkien on acid up in this bitch. Also, am I really living in a tree god? Am I its food or or is this some sort of arboreal sex thing. I’ve got to get the fuck outta here.” 

For real? Is this where I was? Fucking maybe. It could also be that a while ago some idiot was convinced to write about an album a day and shit just went from there. It could also be that this moron got fucking tired one day after two years and with *gestures vaguely everywhere* and needed a break. Who knows? And then maybe some real fucking shit happened in this jackass’s life. Shit, who can fucking tell. It might even be that this stupid bitch finally got convinced to get back to writing some shit cause of dope-ass people like you kept asking and being persistent as all hell. Who knows. But one thing is for certain, The Brightly Off-Coloured Discophile is gonna be writing some shit again, motherfucker. Not everyday cause that shit was draining as all fuck (even though it helped keep that slick bitch on track and loved every minute of it back in the day). But that doesn’t mean that this pure pimp of a creature can’t write out some shit once a week. Like, damn. Get off your ass, ya sleazy fuck. We’ve got music to talk about! 

Most importantly thanks: gorgeous brutes, people of wisdom and class, royalty of sonic, kings and queens of racket/noise/and bangs, for keeping up with this shit and giving half a fuck about some motherfucker you barely know. If anything proves that this world has got what it takes to survive, it’s shit like that. So go enjoy a nice wank and give yourself a pat on the back, on me, you fucking deserve it. 

And also, thanks for listening and keep listening. There’s more to come.

Pink Siifu – Negro


If you’ve been anywhere near anything with an electronic screen for the past who-the-fuck-knows-anymore, it’s as obvious and loud as S&M sex in a quiet synagogue that people are angry. And rightly fucking so. Any audiophiliac worth their salt, or anyone that has perused briefly past this new-fangled bop ’n’ groove the kids call rap, knows shit’s been fucked and is fucked for black people in America. There ain’t a bush thick enough or hole deep enough to hide from this fact. Yet? Here we fucking are. Bush thick and supposedly living in the centre of goddamn Pluto. How the fuck? Why the fuck? Just fucking, what? HUH?! And this pressure? You know exactly what I’m fucking talking about. That child-sized weight sitting on my chest since this all started? Well, it won’t stop fucking eating. And the shit’s getting heavier. It’s sumo. And here I am carrying this bitch around like I birthed it. Goddamn, baby. I’m not your mama! Begone! And then all these tragically lost lives are used as political fodder. Surprise. Surprise. And now the simple fucking message this started with is, somehow, neglecting some piece of shit that feels left out of the party for some stupid fucking reason. Suddenly, bucked-toothed moonshiners are thinking they’re Plato by splitting the semantic hairs of mottos and picking out its lice but their only relation to the name is their malleability. And now this cunt is bringing up black on black crime? Of fucking course. Well, Cunty McCuntums, what the fuck about it? How’s white on white crime doing, or is that shit just called murder now? I don’t think that … wait a minute … let me finish. Hold up. Is bucktooth breastfeeding my chest baby? It’s matter, not are better. Sorry McCuntums, I gotta. Wait, huh? How is … But really how the …


And that’s this album. This album is the expression of anger and confusion so many of us feel at this time. It’s finally letting go and screaming so hard your guts shoot out your ass like a bloody glitter bomb. It relieves tension by expressing it. POP! SPLAT! BOOM! It’s not all screaming, either. Plenty of tears in the album if you listen closely. And at any point if you get confused about who this album is about? Visit the website, that got released along with the album and see images of black people just living normal lives. Because this album is for everybody. It may not sound like it at first cause, let’s get real, it’s fucking weird. It’s jazz, funk, rap, grunge, and punk fused into a single form. Of course it’s fucking weird. But that’s how abstract art works, motherfucker. It can express the ineffable. And when you’re surrounded with this hyperreal, noxious, and gruesome reality of this every fucking day, honest expression tends to get a bit strange because that’s exactly how we feel. This album is the scream in the night that expresses our woe, frustration, and nausea. It’s the musical version of that anger-fuelled sigh when you realize that the person you’ve been talking to for an hour hasn’t been listening to you . It’s an echoing disappointment stemming from centuries of being used and neglected. Is it angry? Fuck ya. It is confusing? It better be. But most of all, is it honest? You’re goddamned right it is.


György motherfucking Ligeti

The first time listening to Ligeti is a trip. It changes you. Film a baby laughing, hundreds of monarch butterflies in migration, or a peaceful lake in the dawn of a perfect summer’s day. A small helping of Ligeti on top and suddenly all of these scenes become fucking nightmares. It draws the depravity, the nauseating monotony, the existential fucking rage of all of it. That baby? A pinch of Ligeti and you’re convinced that baby is the unloving creator of us all and laughing directly at our feeble attempts at existence. Those butterflies? Just a smidge and it’s a single consciousness spread amongst thousands of beings unknowingly following a desire within themselves they do not control. That fucking lake. That stupid fucking lake. That watery bitch. A dash of our man and it’s eating happy splashy people. Metal? Naw, dude. Metal is kids with guitars wanting to be rock stars and having an excuse to wear makeup. Metal is cute. Noise music? Please. It’s a wall of sound. A sonic boulder. Big, bold, and easy to walk away from. Ligeti fucks with you. It gets inside of you. His technically precise and haunting music perniciously infects you. It’s fun in this fantastically sick way, the same way a thick scream from the loudest track you can imagine is fun. It’s angry. It’s rebellious. It’s so wrong it turns left till it’s alright again. Sure, there are days when Ligeti isn’t enjoyable. But then there are those other days, those demon days, the days when the only way to express yourself is by screaming so hard blood paints your tongue and then you lick that shit like the cat that got the cream. Ligeti days. On these days? Nothing else can quench that bawdy barbarity. 

Let’s start with the easy shit: Étude No. 13, L’escalier du diable / The Devil’s Staircase. Strangely, this track sounds exactly what that name suggests. You feel like you’re on a staircase to hell and, hot fuck, it’s moving fast. This shit is so thick it gets hit on at the club. It’s so chewy vegans won’t eat it. It’s a demonic slide full of creepy crawlies and it’s fun as hell. For the few fucks that don’t know, the sign ‘fon sheet music, it means you gotta play that shit “loud or strong.” Well, this motherfucker’s got a chord that’s played as ‘ffffffff‘. No shit. That’s the notation. Ligeti is just waiting for the motherfucker with enough stones to kick the shit out of the piano and spit on its broken body before taking a shit inside then taking their bow. The idea of build, harshness, and repetition on this piece is essential for its sonic and ideological hellscape. For those of you that enjoy darkness done right, here’s your motherfucker.

Lux Aeterna, Ligeti’s most famous piece. Why? Because it’s on the fucking soundtrack to Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey. Kubrick was incessantly tumescent for Ligeti. You know how shit just doesn’t feel right in The Shining? That’s Ligeti. What about the added creep to Tom Cruise in Eyes Wide Shut? You fucking guessed it, Ligeti. There’s a reason his shit works in Kubrick’s film. This song is a grand and beautiful choir singing out into grand expanse and coming to terms with a demonic force, something like an A.I. that’s fanatical about your demise, mayhaps? This piece, all around, is a tough flex. It’s slow. It’s moiling. It’s got cluster chords and this tight shit Ligeti calls micropolyphony. This basically means different motherfuckers singing in different tempos and rhythms. This gives each member of the choir a “where the fuck did you just come from!” feel. It’s the musical version of someone creeping behind you without you knowing about it. FUCK! Where did you come from baseline? The fuck out of here! SHIT! Tenor, you freaked me out! By the way, they be singing Latin up in this bitch. Lux aeterna luceat eis, Domine, cum sanctis tuis in aeternum, quia pius es. Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine; et lux perpetua luceat eis, which means “May everlasting light shine upon them, O Lord, with thy saints in eternity, for thou art merciful. Grant them eternal rest, O Lord, and may everlasting light shine upon them.” The message is chill, kinda, but how it’s done is freaky as hell. In the end the execution makes this shit straight up existential. It turns eternal life into living fucking forever. Like, forever-ever. Ever-ever. The planet is dead. The sun is burnt out. And you’re just some dumb fuck floating in entropic blackness propelling yourself with farts. This piece sticks to your shit like ass hair.

Ligeti wasn’t all just soundtracks and dope chops, though. His depth was real. Being Hungarian Jews, both his brother and father were killed in concentration camps. His mother survived Auschwitz. Then, after the war, he went straight into some super fucky communism. After going through this kinda shit? You just don’t feel pop music anymore. It seems childish. All You Need Is Love can fuck itself with a burning cactus. God? Naw dawg, you had your chance. Shit’s over. It’s time for chaos, motherfucker. Not just for the pain that’s felt in loss but for the joy and the guilt in having survived it. For the painful forgetting that comes alongside peace. It’s the fear that comes when you realize no one is piloting the goddamn plane. This dude lived in the quick witness and humility of someone that truly fucking lived. You listen to shit like Hamburg Concerto and it’s no longer about depth of space. Shit’s about havoc, joy, pain, loss, and everything else. It’s an everything bagel you keep ordering even though you don’t know why. Whenever I think I got a hold of this thing called music, I go back to Ligeti. There’s always something in it I just don’t get, something too odd, something that’s beyond me. Then, after a while, I feel the shape of it. And it scratches something in me that I didn’t know itched. I get it if you think I’m fucking with ya. This shit is really weird. You might think I’m some overeducated shit trying to be smart by tapping my foot to noise. It’s not like that. Sometimes life just throws you shit that’s stranger than alternative, angrier than metal, and deeper than ambient. There are moments when you’re suspended in madness. Did you ever think the grocery store would look like a dystopian landscape? Are we all just cool with this now? Ligeti is for the moments you tell yourself this world can’t be real. When nothing feels normal. That’s when I put this shit on and stare out into a lake made of monarch butterflies that’s eating some laughing baby and say to myself, “This motherfucker jams.”


Aaron Diehl – The Vagabond

aaronThese motherfuckers can play!

Diehl ain’t here to prove shit. The jazz pianist got the grammies, the accolades, the chops, the crowds, the swag, that fat jazz dick, and the depth of an emo black hole discovering God in the galaxy MACS0647-JD. Ya, the galaxy MACS0647-JD, motherfuckers. That shit is deep. Paul Sikvie, the upright bassist on this bitch, plays like silk feels. He floats like a feather on a warm breeze in summer. Ever hear bass whisper secrets to its lover under the bedsheets? That’s how this dude plucks gut. Then there’s Gregory fucking Hutchinson. Some drummers can’t be called drummers. They’re just past that shit. They’re beyond. They’re complete musicians and composers. They’re euphonic fucking savants. These three players blend perfectly. They exist to project a single idea. The subtle depth of this album comes on like spring. Sure, you might not notice it all at first, but that doesn’t mean it’s not powerful. No matter how frigid, long, and powerfully bitchy winter is, one day you look outside and there’s some deer accidentally fucking a bush over a batch of new-sprung flowers. Well, shit, there it is. It’s fucking spring. This shit sneaks up like a ninja. You don’t realize it’s murdered you until it’s over.

This album includes 7 original compositions from Diehl himself. Each one is like that chocolate waterfall in Wonka’s factory: smooth, thick, enticing, daring, a bit scary, and rich as balls. This is music you can throw on in the back and feel good about. But if you’re in the mood to dig into technique and wonder, you’ll have Oompa Loompas singing about your death before act 2. Like Willy Wonka, as you’re smiling like the cat that got the cream, it’s subtly killing with a cane, like a true motherfucking pimp. The other songs on this album are covers. A classic jazz move. Usually jazzers change up songs from legends like Gershwin, Fats, and sometimes Radiohead. But not Diehl. Naw, too fucking easy. This dude covers Philip Glass’s, “Piano Étude No. 16,” and Prokofiev’s, “March from Ten Pieces for Piano, Op. 12.” This ain’t just a shtick either. He doesn’t simply pull it off, dude pulls it out. And it’s fucking glorious.

Wait … what does it pull out? Effortless style, technique that makes me question what the fuck I’ve done with my life, a fun with experimentation and complexity in the same field and depth that chess masters and theoretical physicists must venture through. Come on. How the fuck can someone improvise Prokofiev? Well, first they’ve got to have to the gall, tenacity, and diligence to pull that shit off. Ain’t gonna happen overnight. Second, they’ve got to love the shit out of the piece and listen into all kinds of music with the clarity of a goddamn audiophiliac. And finally, those motherfuckers better be able to play.

The Soft Pink Truth – Shall We Go On Sinning So That Grace May Increase?

soft pinkRoman 6:1, 2. “What shall we say, then? Shall we go on sinning so that grace may increase?”

When Johnny Cash quotes Revelation 6 at the beginning of the song, “A Man Comes Around” it’s fucking badass. A gruffly old bible quoting coming from the king of outlaw country? Fuck ya. “And Hell followed with him.” Shit still gives me chills. It made me pee a little. No, I lied, it wasn’t all pee. But this Romans shit? What the fuck? This is some NIV yielding artsy shit. This isn’t old school tobacco chewing King James. It doesn’t sound badass. It’s fucking confusing. I wish I could blow past it. I wish I could take on the mind that some artsy fucks just like to sound strange and quote esoteric bible verses cause it makes their dicks hard and their seats wet. But this is Drew Daniels from Matmos. Their last album (under their band name) was an electronic album made entirely out of the sound created from plastic. The reason? Save the fucking earth. These motherfuckers make concept albums. Their shit is deliberate. He’s a Shakespearean fucking scholar. Dude understands intent. Each track off this album is a single word from this verse so it’s probably super fucking important. Knowing this, I don’t think I have a choice.

It’s time for bible study, motherfuckers.

The book of Romans is a letter. Yep, pad and pen shit. An old school e-mail. In the letter this dude Paul, or the artist previously known as Saul until he tripped balls on hallucinogens one day, is writing a letter—yep you guessed it—to the fucking Romans. In this bit of verse, Paul is talking about the grace of god and all that good shit. But he’s getting tricky with heaven. Check it: If humanity is saved only by the grace of god, and we get this grace when we sin, shouldn’t we sin all the time so we can keep getting buckets full of grace? More sin = more grace. You know the move. We’ve all done it. Piss off the hot ex so you can keep rage fucking. Fake sick to get out of school. Trip the kid in the park because: One, it’s not your kid. Two, it’s hilarious. And three, there’s no one else around. In other words, it’s a dick move. You get what you want, sure, but you’re a cunt about it. This begs the question, why the fuck would you make an album about this?

Drew Daniels is not a fan of Trump’s trumpery.

The election of Donald Trump made me feel very angry and sad, but I didn’t want to make “angry white guy” music in a purely reactive mode. I felt that I needed to make music through a different process, and to a different emotional outcome, to get past a private feeling of powerlessness by making musical connections with friends and people I admire, to make something that felt socially extended and affirming.

Seems like the dude is talking about how to react to *gestures wildly in every direction*. And, fuck me, he makes a good point using the bible. That book. That pissy brick. More times than I wish to say, when someone’s been a huge dick it’s acted as its head. But this time it’s different. Drew Daniels is gay. I’m sure the dude has been on the receiving end of a good bible thumping. And he’s a smart dude. He understands his audience. This verse is directed toward the people that actually listen to his music. And after watching countless educated and angry motherfuckers condemning close minded and sanctimonious motherfuckers that won’t change under duress, he came to understand that we’re all stupid motherfuckers. We can keep tweeting shitty things to someone that dropped out of elementary school about something we feel passionate about. Fuck, you might even get that good feeling of fighting the good fight. But should we keep on being cunts to feel socially validated? Or, in other words, shall we go on sinning so that grace may increase?

Oh shit, the fucking music!!!

There’s not fucking way I would have done this bible study unless the shit was dope. This album combines electronica, contemporary classical, funk, pop, and a fuck ton of other genres. This shit is at the forefront of the goddamn game. Is it strange at times? Um, ya. Look at that fucking title. But more than anything, it’s peaceful. It’s restorative. The music matches the message. It’s calming ambient with a message of peace without being flaky as hell. It’s heavily conceptual without being weighty as fuck. It pokes the bear just enough to get that good rage fucking, doesn’t move in, doesn’t eat all the food, and gets to the point without getting murdered. It’s the goldilocks of goldilocks. It’s one smart ass bitch.


Black Dresses – Peaceful as Hell

peacefulashellSome general motherfuckers call the genre “noise pop” halfway between bubblegum and avant-guard. And I get it, kinda. But that’s a far fucking fetch from defining whatever the hell this is. Noise pop? Naw. This is what happens when your nightmare comes to life and makes you motorboat their perfect set of tits. This is the devil’s stripping and strutting a soft 9 in an overworked banana hammock as he drips hot wax across his perfect set of abs. This is electronic/metal dressed up as a schoolgirl  happily licking an eyeball at the end of a pointy stick. This is the soundtrack you play as you burn down your childhood home. It’s the sound of burning dreams. It’s sonic fucking conflagration. It’s the anger created from the disillusionment of everything pop, and a lot of society, promised the world would be. The rich are born rich. Marriage didn’t make me feel less lonely. The new house is a prison I can’t escape. The glass slippers came in a variety of sizes and Prince Charming is fucking my father.

This album doesn’t start with much. Some synth and a female pop voice singing about being hurt. Bla bla bla. Yadda yadda yadda. Heard this shit before. Then around the 2 minute mark the voice begins to distort and your curiosity sparks. But that’s just the beginning of the deterioration. This album starts with a false expectation. But, for your own fucking good, stick around. There’s more here than meets the eyeball being licked at the end of a stick. The nightmare is fucking entertaining.

Around the 1:40 mark on the second track the metal double kick drums start. Oh fuck ya. The 1:50 mark shows a bit of the evil face similar to Death Grips. There it fucking is. Then in a sudden crash, at 2:15, it’s a happy-dappy pop song again. Huh? The more this album plays, the more distorted it becomes. This is the fairy tale pop music created arriving into the real world. It’s the Little Mermaid realizing her husband only loved her when she was voiceless and 17, Snow White’s Prince revealing he’s actually a necrophiliac that happened upon – what he thought was – a dead homeless woman, and Mary Poppins’s sugar being nothing more than a shit ton of DMT she feeds to kids so she can fuck the dirty chimney sweep in the next room. But, don’t worry, this doesn’t mean you can’t dance. It doesn’t mean the world is shit. It’s better this way. The music bobs way more than it ever did in Nevergonnaland. And now you can bounce that dump truck ass on the dance floor. Stretch marks? Fuck ya, let me lick those sexy grooves. Black Dresses doesn’t destroy pop and replace it with nihilism. Too fucking easy. It takes the shit we always knew and gives it depth, flare, and reason. It’s loud, honest, and unforgiving. It takes Cinderella, puts her in the real world, and she’s become a mafia don running her own brothel by the end of the year. It’s a whole new world and it’s one hot ‘n’ nasty bitch.