Only a god with a complete control of their instrument, like Béla Fleck, could go so deep into their shit that they end up back in fucking Africa. That shit is like a monk going full Obi-wan and having their atoms join the cosmos and leaving behind an empty robe on the floor. That’s a master chef creating such a perfect bite that its taste induces every emotion humanly available, alongside multiple orgasms and epiphanies, and then retiring directly thereafter. It’s an electrician becoming Tesla. A pornstar deepthroating an entire person. A racer going warp. Picasso fucking fingerpainting. It’s a goddamn doyen achieving a complete understanding of their craft. Is it interesting to listen to? What the fuck do you think?

But Africa? How the hickory-shit does the tooth-missing, cousin-fucking, get-the-fuck-off-my-porch-ing twang box connect back to Africa? During that oh-shit-slavery period of American history, a painting called “The Old Plantation” was made. There are peeps direct from the Caribbean playing the fucking banjo. Many people believe the banjo came to the Caribbean from West Africa. But this shit goes much deeper. Check it: The word “banjo” might derive from the Kimbundu word mbanza, mbanza might be the African remake of the Portuguese banza, which could originate from bandore, which could be the Anglicization of bandurria, and this shit? This shit might stem from an ancient fucking Afro-Caribbean folk dance called the banya. Catch that? The banjo is so fucking old it could date back to some dance Adam and Eve did after eating the no-no apple. Now that’s some fucking roots. So what does a master banjo player do with this information? He goes to Africa and jams with other insane musicians. Thus: this fucking album. Well, kinda.

Béla released the majority of this album back in 2010, called it Throw Down Your Heart, and even made a movie about it. On it, Fleck plays with singers, guitarists, xylophones, and tons of other shit. So what’s this fucking album? This is the greatest, and mostly unreleased, session from that entire fucking project. This is the session where Béla Fleck, likely the world’s greatest banjo player in the world, plays with Toumani Diabaté, probably the greatest kora player in the world. The kora is like a banjo but with 21 strings. One of my fave songs is the last: “Dueling Banjos” aka that shit from Deliverance. On it, both musicians play their chops until Toumani starts to show a bit too much flex. From there Béla says, “You know this means war.” From there they both pop musical veins all over the fucking place. This is all out of kindness, of course. They’re both at this point in their musical ascendancy where they wouldn’t debase themselves with something like competition.

These two dedicated their lives to the twang. A sound that has crossed countries, centuries, cultures, immeasurable cruelty, and comes from something so fucking ancient we’re just guessing at its origins. It’s a sound that’s so lighthearted and joyful it must be transitory. Right? Because glee can’t be old. Can it? Listening to this album is like figuring out the dawn of mankind derives from a joke. Some pluckful quip that reverberates all the way back to the origins of the universe. This delightful, light, and irrational state of affairs where atoms swirled, joined, and fucked for no other reason than attraction and shits ‘n’ giggles. Some delightful joke that led to the Big Bang. But after listening to this album, I think we got it wrong. Bang? Fuck no. Twang, motherfucker. Twang.

“Fucking Birds?” you ask me after realizing what’s on these albums. “Why the twiddle-dee-fuck would I give a twaddle-dee-shit about fucking birds, Brightly?” Well, let me tell your sweet ass.

You could be next to a kid so high off sugar they’re hallucinating the Hindu goddess Chinnamasta ironically fucking their favourite parent’s neck hole and so, expectedly, they’re screaming their guts out and won’t stop. You could be stuck within some small secluded box, forced to inhale thousands of recycled farts next to a refrigerator motor. Your ass could be hanging out of a hospital bed as the TV in front of you is stuck on golf. You could be deep underground recycling used tissues now that Pornhub Premium is free but, in some nasty version of the Twilight Zone, toilet paper is suddenly a limited resource. You could be with a partner or a pet. You could be alone. But all of us are spending a shitload of time inside in order to save lives. That’s the situation. And it’s royally fucked up.

So, what do you do if you can’t just open the door into beautiful nature? You’ve seen the shows, watched the movies, whatever sexual organ you can find is raw, the brain hurts from books, and you’re so full of the garbage food, which you won’t stop pounding down that face hole like malfunctioning construction equipment, you’ve begun to shame cramp. At a time like this, put on nature sounds and take a deep breath. It fucking helps. I promise. But you’re not some fucking greenhorn that puts on just any nature sounds. Fuck no. You’re a goddamn audiophiliac. You know this shit. You know the French ornithologist and wildlife field recordist John C. Roché has done this shit for over 30 years and has released over 130 albums. The dude is a goddamn pro. His equipment is top-notch, his shit is tight, and his recordings are clear as fucking crystal.

So, why these two albums out of over a 130? Well, lots of John’s recordings weren’t meant to create a vibe. He would record some bird for 6 seconds and move the fuck on like some cold-hearted bastard. But, one day, he just let that shit go. He was recording nightingales and just didn’t stop. The track titles tell the rest of the story. “In A Mountain Forest In Northern Greece” was recorded in a fucking mountain forest in Northern Greece. How about “At the Edge Of A Forest Beside A Lake?” You’ll never guess, it was recorded at the edge of a fucking forest beside a goddamn lake. See how this shit goes? And this album is gorgeous. It’s sweet. It’s literally songbirds singing for about an hour. So, ya, it’s pretty fucking real.

So, why is this Venezuela album also included? Cause it’s fucking badass. If “Nightingales” is John’s opus to a benevolent god then “Venezuela” is an homage to the strange and heartless fuck that created all this shit. The song of the Potoo (the creature on the album cover) is metal as fuck. I can’t believe most of these sounds are birds. It sounds unreal, but it actually isn’t. And if it didn’t have John fucking Roché written on the title, I wouldn’t believe it. John is the GOAT bird field recordist. And these albums fucking prove it.

Fucking birds? Fucking Aye.

You ever eat something so sour your muscles tense up, your eyes squint, your feet flex, and your mouth goes straight cat’s asshole? Ever make that same face when a thick, rough, and dirty bass drops? Well, if you’re one of these motherfuckers, here’s a fresh bowl of sonic hot ’n’ sour. The bass on this bitch is so heavy and nasty it’s like a pair of citrus legs, spread wide and dripping acid, just waiting for someone to lick its tangy tumescent pulp. This tart is so tarted up it’s tartly tardy but, of course, only fashionably so. Hold up. What da fuck was that? I’m saying this bass is so thick it’s like a pool of mercury, so nasty it doesn’t hesitate for the ass, and so low it’s below freezing and ripping off its own grandmother. Damn, now that shit is low.

These beats feel like a cross between Nine Inch Nails and Saul Williams. And like the great Saul Williams, Zebra Katz (Ojay Morgan) isn’t rapping overtop for kicks. Dude is saying something. Even if tracks have lines like, “All I wanna do is keep the dance floor jumping and that ass bump-bumping” there’s intellectualism involved. Think I’m lying? Don’t believe me? Good. I’m fucking glad. Now I get to prove you wrong. Ojay came up with his character Zebra Katz while studying liberal arts in uni. It took him half-a-fucking-second after arriving to realize that black guys were often typecast. He took his views and anger out in his senior thesis called, “Moor Contradictions” a title which is a play on words for all the Moorish characters in Shakespeare. Moorish: Back in the day name for people of colour for some stupid fucking reason (originally described people from the Roman province Mauretania [place in North African] but was eventually used to describe Muslims in Europe until the Renaissance came around and then Moor, or blackamoor, described any person with dark skin. Like I said, some stupid fucking reason.) One of the characters Ojay played in his thesis was Zebra Katz, a badass motherfucker that could rap about any subject thrown his way. The character blew up on social media. Ojay released a mixtape in this character that was so hot he got to tour with the Gorillaz. Pretty cool, right?

Ojay took himself out for five years of long contemplation and character assessment before dropping this album. Sure, Zebra Katz was a character like Bowie’s “Ziggy Stardust” or Saul William’s “NiggyTardust!” But did people get that? I feel like in this debut, Ojay makes fucking sure we do. There’s a signature line throughout this album that goes, “Zebra fucking Katz”. On the first track, this mantra is crystal clear and sung by a choir. It eventually becomes more bogged down, muffled, and distorted as these baselines and club hits become stronger and stranger. By the last song, this line is distorted and augmented to the point where it’s frightening. You wanna have your club hits? Zebra Katz tears this shit apart until it sounds like Venetian Snares. This is a thick and nasty message that makes ya think and shake your ass at the same time. Because, as they say, there’s more than one way to get a PhD from the stripper pole. But because we’re all social distancing and staying inside to save lives, I suggest giving the album a try before going to da club.

Goddamn … I mean … goddamn! This is a good album.

If you’re new to Thundercat, that sucks. But, hold up, it’s not too late. He’s right here. There’s still time. Aren’t you so fucking lucky! “Outrageously talented”, would be the quickest summation I could give the 35-year-old jazzhead Stephen Lee Bruner. Because the better Stephen gets, the more outrageous he seems to become. Either that or, mayhaps, that distinct style and humour of his helps guard him from the pure absurdity of fame or a completely fucked up existence. Using absurdity and humour as armour? HA! That’s ridiculous, like some sad clown crying into their pea soup because they ran out of salt. Wait, what? Ya, fucking exactly.

Chances are that even if you haven’t stalked Stephen’s sexy ass van on weekends or haven’t been known to throw Thundercat on repeat, you’ve heard Thundercat’s thick thumbs slapping the shit out of dat bass. Dude’s been chilling in the back with some of the world’s faves and greatest. He’s birthed some of the boomiest, bluesiest, and busiest baselines amongst modern musical gods like: Flying Lotus, Kendrick Lamar, Donald Glover’s Atlanta, Snoop Dogg, Erykah Badu, and his close friend, and recent loss, Mac Miller. You hear the pain of Stephen’s grief on tracks like “Fair Chance.” Run out of salt for your pea soup? This is the track for you. Look, if you’re one of these sour bitches or uptight assholes that can’t find humour in life, you’re really not going to enjoy your time here. Thundercat doesn’t wallow. Not his steeze. He’ll crack jokes amongst jazzy, psychedelic, and funky atmospheres. Dude’s included a thick baby-making funk track that includes the chorus, “Baby girl, how do I look in my durag,” and the line, “I may be covered in cat hair, but I still smell good.” The track, “Miguel’s Happy Dance,” starts with the line, “Do the fucking happy dance even when you’re really fucking mad.” This shit is funny. With its humour, honesty, tragedy, and stoned-out-of-its-mind atmosphere, this album feels fan-fucking-tastic on quarantine days.

Personally? I’ve always hated the phrase, “It is what it is.” It’s something dumb fucks like to toss out when they want to sound wise. It’s the excuse people give when they’re too lazy to try. It’s the phrase someone says when they explain a situation that seems to be beyond their control when it really isn’t. It’s De Niro’s reasoning for killing Pacino in “The Irishman”. It’s a crutch. It’s fucking pathetic. I think of the millions of defiant people that raged and fought throughout history, against seemingly insurmountable obstacles and forces, listening to some dolt puttering this phrase to a friend after they’ve run out of beer. People that know me well say this shit just to get on my nerves. But when it comes to death? I fucking get it. That big unknowable. The long sleep. Crossing the river Styx in a horizontal phone booth. Kicking a bucket of pushed daisies with your toes tagged six feet under to join an invisible choir. I fucking get it. On this album’s final track it says, “When it all comes to an end, when there’s nothing left to say, it is what it is.” This comes right before the track’s final line and shout out to Stephen’s newly departed friend Mac, “Hey, Mac!” This album is full of heart and humour. You might be laughing and crying at once. It’s honest, it’s personal, and it’s as fucking real as it gets. In short: goddamn, this is a good album.

There’s only one answer when someone asks you who your favourite Beatle is: Harry fucking Nilsson.

Back in 68′, the Beatles were asked their favourite American artist, Lennon replied “Nilsson.” Later on, in the same interview, when the Beatles were asked who their favourite group was, they answered again, “Nilsson.” On the two previous nights, both John and Paul called up the guy at four in the morning, without ever having met him, just to tell him he was dope. Harry thought this shit was a dream. Years later, John would spend a week so famously full of pure fucking debauchery that it’s gone from history. Poof. Yet, somehow, around this time these annoyingly talented and famous fucks made an album together called Pussy Cats. They also ended up in a club called “The Hollywood Vampires” where entry meant outdrinking Alice Cooper and Keith fucking Moon. Nilsson became symbolic for what the group was about. It’s also a week where Lennon broke up with Yoko. Harry out rock-stared the biggest of rock stars on the reg. He’s king fucking rockstar. His lazy Monday is your most drug induced, alcohol driven, and sexually adventurous weekend of your life. Harry was bigger, badder, and harder. And he sang like a goddamn songbird.

Harry’s life always moved like an avalanche. No joke, his grandparents (which he was super fucking close with) were Swedish Circus performers and dancers especially known for their aerial ballet (Cough! Look at the title of the fucking album. Cough!) He worked at an early age cause his family was broke as fuck. He dropped out of school in 9th grade, a fact he lied to the bank he was employed at. But, in true Harry style, even after the bank found this shit out they kept him on because he was that fucking cool. Harry started writing songs when he covered tunes on a ukulele, would forget the fucking words, and just come up with his own shit. He eventually started singing on demos for 5 bucks a pop (These tracks were re-released after Harry got famous. A producer called up Harry to figure out his payment and Harry said, “I already got paid. 5 bucks a track.”) Little fucking Richard (ya, that one) heard Harry sing around this time and said, “My! You sing gooooood for a white boy!” This led to Harry singing with Phil Spector, writing many songs for the Monkees, releasing an album with Randy Newman, and releasing his own debut album. Huh?! How the fuck? No one knows. That’s Harry. Fuckers wanted a piece, especially after the deep love from the Beatles, so people called up RCA to find out when Harry would be in town.

“Hello?”

“Hi, I was wondering if I could talk to Harry Nilsson’s agent or manager. Are either of them there?

“No, don’t think they are. But you’re talking to him.”

“To whom?”

“This is Harry. I write songs out of this shitty RCA office for some fucking reason. Anyway, what do you want?”

“Um, okay. I was wondering, when was the last time you played a show?”

“I haven’t played a show.” Harry lights up a smoke.

“Um, okay. Where would you like to play?”

“Nowhere,” Harry exhales smoke.

“Um, alright, can you tell me where you’re playing next at least?”

“I won’t be. I don’t play shows.” Harry hangs up the phone.

Harry achieved all his success and never played a single concert for a paying audience (small shows for friends only). Nowadays, this shit’s more common with internets and quarantines. Back in the ’60s and ’70s, this didn’t exist. Dude’s life was truly insane. Every year a new Harry story seems to pop up, even after all these years since his death back in ’94. And each one is equally ludicrous. Check it: He created one of the first remix albums. One of the big pop hits he wrote for the Monkees (Cuddly Toy) was, according to the liner notes, about “a Hell’s Angels gangbang.” He wrote the soundtrack for the major flop Popeye starring Robin Williams (supposedly Harry sized mountains of coke were snorted by both continually throughout the shooting). His children’s movie, “The Point,” was narrated by Ringo Star. He ripped a vocal chord while making the album Pussy Cats with Lennon (I swear this shit happens at the end of the title track “Many Rivers To Cross”). So on and so fucking forth. The man was a legend amongst legends. An idol amongst idols. In fact, he was so fucking big that it obscured just how good and smart this fucker really was.

Aerial Ballet didn’t, and doesn’t, have the success of Nilsson Schmilsson. Yesterday, Ty Segal even released a cover album of Nilsson Schmilsson (it’s really fucking good) demonstrating that this is still the album that everybody’s talkin’ about. So, why the fuck am I writing about Aerial Ballet? Because it’s Harry’s fucking best. I don’t care if the world disagrees. This shit is king. It’s the one that shows who the fuck he really was. First song, “Daddy’s Song” is all whimsical and fun and happy-go-fucking-lucky, just like Harry. But a thin dive into the lyrics and the pitch whistles at a different tune. Check out the lyrics on Harry’s, “1941”:

Well, in 1941 a happy father had a son
And by 1944, the father walks right out the door
And in ’45 the mom and son were still alive
But who could tell in ’46 if the two were to survive

This shit is autobiographical. No shit, Harry’s father abandoned him when he was 3. So to start an album with a track called “Daddy’s Song” is so tongue-in-cheek the shit’s busted through the other side and chunks of cheek are dripping off that bloody tongue. But that’s Harry. That’s this album. That’s his fucking genius. For instance, the next track, “Good Old Desk” is a love song to a desk. What? Ya, it’s a love song for a fucking desk. And if you’re one of those high-flying shits that enjoys ignoring their problems down below like an emotional high-wire circus act tight roping across that giant void of despair (cough! COUGH!) then that’s all this song will ever be; a lovely song about a piece of wood. But, look closer at that title. Hmm. Something’s fucky. What’s the first letter of each word spell out? God… Wait, God! Is this shit a love song for a desk or Nilsson explaining his complicated and atheistically leaning relationship to a god figure he admires and loathes? Well, motherfucker, it’s both. Because both a desk and God, according to Harry, “never say a word” and, “it’s perfectly alright with me.” Hot ruby finger fuck, that’s clever. Other tracks on this album like, “One” and “Everybody’s Talkin’, have this same thin veneer of humour and jest hiding a deep black hole of loneliness and existential despair. And it’s this play between the two that should make this album, and Harry Nilsson, a legend. But that’s not what the motherfucker’s known for. Harry was the admirable druggie and drunk full of good times, fun stories, and a beautiful fucking singing voice. This is what most people want, and wanted, to know him for. Maybe it’s easier that way. Maybe, like Kurt Vonnegut, it’s easier to imagine an active war zone as an alien planet full of hot babes with big tits and laser guns. Maybe it’s easier to imagine that our childhoods were happy and fun and nothing-bad-ever-happened-so-shut-the-fuck-up-already! Maybe it’s easier for some people to think a deadly pandemic virus is nothing more than the flu. Shit all depends on how much you like aerial ballet.

So, who’s your favourite Beatle?

Ya… I fucking thought so.

What’s up you audiophiliac motherfuckers!!!!!!!!

“What’s this?” you say to yourself, “I thought The Brightly Off-Coloured Discophile got drunk as hell and high as fuck before traversing the Andes, swallowing a sea, and eating moon cheese with Bowie in order to find the others like the prophecies fucking foretold. Can this be real?” Well it is, you beautiful bastards. No need to pinch yourself unless your kink needs a kick. And now that post apocalyptic thrillers are looking more like documentaries and we’re all stuck inside our separate submarines trying to weather out this viral storm, I threw down the moon cheese, vomited up a sea, and crossed back over the goddamned Andes to come talk about some sweet fucking tunes with you like the good ol’ days. If there was a time to strap on a nice set of ear cans, it’s right the fuck now. So buckle them shits up, motherfuckers. We’re about to launch.

First up? R.A.P. Ferreira (aka Rory Allen Philip Ferreira, Black Orpheus, Milo, Scallops Hotel, Nostrum Grocers). If you’ve never checked Rory before you better watch out, shit is deep. How deep? Think of Rabindranath Tagore, Tupac, and Emerson licking out some chicago deep dish while having a threeway with Mariana’s Trench and on a bed of a black hole and you’re starting to get the idea. Shit is poetry to a beat. You will not understand it on the first try. So listen, rinse, and repeat like fuck. This is something to chew. It ain’t sugar pop candy. It’s goddamn word protein. Fighting alongside these lyrics we’ve got Kenny Segal. A producer whose previous work with Billy Woods was one of the masterpieces of 2019. In the rap world? Getting to work with this guy is like having Miles Davis respond to your craiglist ad, “Need a trumpeter for a gig”. Dude is natural, elegant, and intimidatingly talented. Good thing Rory is a fucking word monster.

This should be enough to wet those lips, thoughts, and shorts. But here’s the thing, lots of motherfuckers have previously had a tough time understanding Rory. Dude can sometimes sound like Heidegger writing out the plot to Finnegan’s Wake while high on absinthe. Even Bertrand Russell has trouble taking the guy’s order. But on this shit Rory smoothes out the message. Is it still thick? Like winter’s molasses slicking down Nicki Minaj. She’s a thick bitch making the beast with two backs with these beats. It doesn’t take over the room. It’s chill. It’s cool. It doesn’t need to flex because it knows it’s dope. You could throw this on and think of it like jazz. Or you could listen in and find a fun challenge, the meaning to life, and possibly that porn clip you forgot the name to and that you’ve been looking for ever since. It all depends how deep you dig. 

What’s up you audiophiliac motherfuckers!! This is the Short list.

This week? Even though we’ve got some heavy hitters like Mike Patton coming out, looks like classical is coming out ahead. Sure, I wanna see what the fuck Devendra Banhard and Alasdair Roberts are up to, but that’s Martha Argerich, Igor Levit, Daniel Barenboim, and Esa-Pekka Salonen coming out with new shit. I don’t know what’s what yet cause this shit ain’t out yet. But I’m pretty fucking excited. Enough of me, here’s the goods.

Got some more family shit to deal with. I’ll be back in full form next week.

And, as always, keep listening.

What the fuck is this? It’s a list of new albums that I’m going to check out. Why the fuck would you care? Cause it’s a dopeass list. I was making this shit for myself and then gave it to some friends. They loved it. So now I share it with the world. Here it is.

Uniform & The Body – Everything That Dies Someday Comes Back

This album begins subtly. A low moaning builds for almost a minute before a pounding electronic war drum smacks you in the side of the face like a dead fish. Around the 2:30 mark, the song begins. If you’re not ready to punk out, swing fists, and warcry it might be best to avoid this album. This is doom metal meets electronic music and it digs into the deeps like an auger seeking water. It’s an oily grimy mess you want to pour over your face and down your throat. It’s a sonic heaven for those that feel like thrashing out a bad day. And if that was all the album gave, it would be enough. But this shit is truly fucking intelligent. It’s chock-full of musical references. The track “Waiting for the End of the World” is named after an Elvis Costello track. The world created by the collaboration between Uniform and The Body is colossal. It’s massive. It’s a black fucking hole that’s screaming out in existential mania. This is a David Lynch movie with a fat ass beat. These two have come to create something truly unique. And it’s worth a fucking listen.

Oh Sees – Face Stabber

At an hour and twenty minutes, this album is a monster. The first track is 8 minutes. Get that? Eight. And each minute is fucking perfect. It’s one of those jams that you play when you want to get a speeding ticket. You won’t be able to help it. The song will make you press the gas, light a smoke, and smile like a coquettish goblin getting finger banged. It’s a non-stop rock powerhouse with delight baked inside. Many psychedelic rock bands have tried to make this album and failed. There isn’t a cliche on this motherfucker. It’s innovative. It doesn’t live in the past (shocker!) You could set your watch to these funky rhythms as everything else ventures into deep space. This album fits more in the funk formula that it does psychedelic rock. It’s not 4 dudes high out of the gourds thinking they’ve each got the golden cock. It’s genuine. I didn’t know I missed psychedelic rock & roll until I heard this. And now? I can’t get enough of it even if this shit is an hour and twenty minutes. This album shows the difference between the obligatory guitar solo verses a guitar being used to express the ineffable. The pushing drums move like a nefarious train on a pursuit to Oh Fuck Ya. This shit is fan-fucking-tastic.

Erkki Veltheim – Ganzfeld Experiment

Hold on to your hats, motherfuckers. This one is a doozie. The “ganzfeld experiment” is a technique to test if someone’s got ESP. Yep, that’s extrasensory fucking perception, mind readers and telepaths for you comic readers. Have you ever looked at something, stared at it for a second, and then thought, “hmm”? Only to hold out your hand and try to move that motherfucker with your mind? Well, it’s possible that shit didn’t work because you hadn’t heard this album yet. This could, potentially, open up your world. Or, more likely, it’s just a truly interesting mindfuck done sonically. Do I actually believe this could give you ESP? Not really. Not yet anyway. I think we have a fuckton more evolving to do before we get to move shit with our minds. But for those that believe you can’t have a transcendental experience through music, you’d better listen to this shit right quick. It’s a single track that swells and shrinks at 45 minutes. This is less of an album and more of an experience. But, man, what a fucking trip.

The Hold Steady – Thrashing Thru The Passion

There are artists out there that create relatable and lovable characters within their lyrics. Some argue that’s why Bruce Springsteen exists. And, sure, maybe he did this at one point. But the Hold Steady makes that shit look like a Hallmark card. Right off the bat you’ve got lines like, “He shaved his head at the airport in the bar at the end of the concourse.” BAM! Already that character is more vivid and real than anything The Boss has written in the last 10 years. Look, I’m not here to shit on classics. Bruce is boss for a reason. But you don’t listen to a Hold Steady song, you live the fucking thing. You have characters and best friends that feel as real, at times more real, than your own toenails. It’s as vivid as the hand in front of you. These songs are full of derelicts, dreamers, delinquents, and the despondent. When the album closes you miss a place you’ve never been, you miss people you’ve never met, and yet the reality drawn into these songs isn’t some fevered dream or idyllic world. You see the cracks in these characters’ faces, smell their bad breath, and you keep secrets from them. The music provides a backing for the lyrics that help create this realism. Without the fun rock tunes, these lyrics would feel like they’re trying too hard. It’s a perfect blend of poetry and music. Have there been more concise Hold Steady albums? Totally. But a lack of focus isn’t this album’s weakness. Instead, you have a wide array of characters travelling the world and being human. You feel their loneliness, their dissonance, and when a tune can do that you know it’s well fucking written.

Annelien van Wauwe, Orchestre National de Lille & Alexandre Bloch – Belle époque

(sorry the link isn’t working for some strange fucking reason)

This album is silly and spunky little bitch. It’s like a sexy otter. That’s right, you read that shit right. This album is like a sexy otter. At times it feels like a Bugs Bunny cartoon. Because even during its ominous times, like when Bugs has the cold business end of a shotgun shoved between his teeth, you know everything’s going to be okay. Fudd’s gun goes flaccid. Bugs gets away. The danger was never real. And that’s what the belle époque (beautiful era) is all about. The era in question is the ass end of the 19th century. Shit was pretty fucking sweet. Tunes were happy, warm, and romantic. Motherfuckers like Debussy, Widor and Pierné were writing halcyon jams all about nature and strange chaotic fun. The world hadn’t seen a world war yet. In fact, such an event would have been unthinkable. Maybe you’re some cynical fuck that’ll turn your chin at such music. “No!” you’ll think while drinking coffee the same colour as your soul, “I’m a realist. All my music must be based in painful fucking existence.” Listen here fucko, hate to tell you this, you’re not a realist you’re a surefire pessimist. Also, you’re shit at parties. Stop going to them till you learn to lighten the fuck up. If there’s such a thing as falling apart, there’s gotta be such a thing as building something up. Does that sound corny? Good. Fucking great. I like my corn. I even like my corn with a fat wad of melted fucking cheese. Every real motherfucker smiles sometimes.

Alongside these old school jams on the album, you’ve got modern fucks like Trojahn, Berio, and Tassyns. Because you don’t have to live in a pre-world-war world to smile. Look at Charlie Chaplin. Dude lived some strange shit. The most evil man to have ever lived stole his fucking moustache! What he do? He beamed light. He mocked and Bugs Bunnied the motherfucker in the famed movie “The Great Dictator”. Wanna see Hitler bounce a world balloon off his ass? Here’s your flick. It’s fucking hilarious without drawing away from what’s real. Annelien Van Wauwe plays the clarinet straight boss. Perfect tone, pitch, and purity. She’s picked these tunes. All these compositions were written in places she has lived and has studied. She brings this history into her notes. Lady puts the feels in. She didn’t release this album during a time of perfect harmony. Naw, she knows what she’s doing. It takes a brave and smart motherfucker to know that, even at the worst of times, the real world comes shining through if you just smile. Enjoy this taste of cheesy-corn like the realist you are.