Notable Tracks: “The Old Guard is Dead,” “I Gazed Upon The Trap With Ambition,” “The Apple That Scarcely Fell,” “Critical Acclaim,” “Branded“
#GoyardHere
Ghais Guevara has completed his masterwork and ended his tour as an underground hip-hop journeyman. His debut album takes the form of a play in two parts, featuring the protagonist Goyard Ibn Said.
The first is an energetic reflection on the triumphs of rapping, the thrill of ambition, and the love of the game. The second section takes a turn into a dark reflection of the cost of fame and the rot of the hip-hop industry unlike anything Guevara has ever done before.
Throughout the album, Guevara shows off his idiosyncratic production and flow, mixing in samples from Spongebob, classical music, and soul, while writing wordplay with references that range from David Fincher’s “The Killer” to J. Sakai’s “Settlers: The Mythology of White Proletarianism.”
These references paint a pointillistic picture of Guevara – his love of the rich history of hip-hop, a Philly upbringing, his roots of black radicalism, and a fiendishness for brands like Prada.
The leftist braggadocio he cultivated on his first mixtape, “BlackBolshevik,” is subtler, as the persona of Goyard takes over for the album. The pastiche of different styles and sampling coalesces to create an awe-inspiring sound, mastered from his previous mixtapes.
Cover for "The Lonesome Crowded West" by Modest Mouse
I don’t remember how I found Modest Mouse, and maybe that part doesn’t matter. I just remember how I felt: lonely, disconnected, achy in that way only teenagers on the precipice of young adulthood can ache.
It was almost winter, and everything was crisping up and preparing for death. I trodded up and down the roadside, shapeless in layered flannels, and gave myself windburn.
I had no destination in mind; I would simply walk as far as the grass would take me, pretending I had some greater purpose. Occasionally, I’d listen to music.
I’m on my way to God don’t know
My brain’s the burger, and my heart’s the coal
I’m trying to get my head clear
I push things out through my mouth
I get refilled through my ears
“Heart Cooks Brain,” by Modest Mouse
“Heart Cooks Brain,” an ode to emotions dominating logic. The song sounded the way I felt: lumbering, wind-chapped and just a little pathetic. There was a thread of humor there, too, a shock of self-deprecation highly attractive to my melancholic teenage self.
The song came from Modest Mouse’s sophomore album, “The Lonesome Crowded West,” listed by Pitchfork as one of the greatest albums of the 1990s.
It’s a long album — with a runtime of over an hour — and despite its various stylistic shifts, it manages to maintain a cultivated sense of honest disillusionment throughout.
I think of dried out autumn leaves and the scent of car exhaust, or clumps of fur falling off a squirrel carcass. Ephemeral things. An orange sun dragging across a bleached-bone sky. The ineliminable passage of time. Nostaglia like a knife through your ribs.
When you’re a teenager, misery feels eternal. Time flows like concrete. Everything smarts like you’ve rubbed yourself raw with pumice. You put on eyeliner and pierce your own ears and buy a digicamera, because all of these things are Acts of Self-Actualization and they’re the only things you can do that seem to matter in your state of semi-powerlessness.
You’re a kid-but-not-quite, teetering on the precipice of ego death, writhing in your ill-fitting skin. You’re barely autonomous, and no one understands you, so you commune with radio waves. You look for salvation in strange places and in strange music. The act of listening transforms into the art of ritual and you keep the magic to yourself so no one can steal it.
Live in trailers with no class
Goddamn, I hope I can pass
High school means nothing
Taking heartache with hard work
Goddamn, I am such a jerk
I can’t do anything
“Trailer Trash,” by Modest Mouse
My friends didn’t “get” Modest Mouse, and I didn’t bother trying to make them understand. Sure, everybody knew “Float On,” but the band’s other stuff? Too abstract. Too weird.
Maybe they were right. Isaac Brock’s penchant for colorful metaphor — (“eating snowflakes with plastic forks“) — and reedy, sometimes staggering voice wasn’t for everyone. Especially in “The Lonesome Crowded West.”
The album wore many hats. Sometimes it was plain indie, slow-paced and stripped down (“Out of Gas“). Other times, it was almost punk (“Sh– Luck”) or straight-up folk (“Jesus Christ Was an Only Child“).
The multitextural quality of the album was one of its principal appeals. It wasn’t a cohesive narrative, per se, but it was like an impressionist painting; stepping back from the flurry of discordant brushstrokes revealed a harmonious picture.
Life gets lonelier when you’re an adult. The energy to sustain social relationships, let alone make new ones, is often far too finite. It often seems unsurmountable.
Over the summer, I moved to the country. As I puttered away from the city and through miles and miles of farmland, I felt lonelier than ever. Familiar landscapes and familiar people melted into sprawls of tobbacco fields and sunbleached barns.
In the first few weeks of the new semester, I spent these drives near tears, languishing in the agony of complete and utter solutide. My chest ached like a bruise. I felt as frivolously miserable as a teenager with a bad haircut. I was borderline inconsolable, on the verge of total breakdown.
So naturally, I cranked up the radio.
Out of gas, out of road
Out of car, I don’t know how I’m gonna go
I had a drink the other day
My opinions were like kittens, I was giving them away
“Out of Gas,” by Modest Mouse
The feeling of comfort I felt as a teenager returned as the album progressed. I hummed the chords as I drove farther and farther from the city. The lyrics were tired like I was tired, but the beat’s energy lured me away from that Edge of Young Adult Madness and into a state of tacit acceptance.
The idea of a “Lonesome Crowded West” is intentionally oxymoronic, and more real than ever. The breakdown of community leaves us isolated even as the bloated bellies of our cities progressively swell.
Whether it be the result of neoliberalism, socioeconomic instability, climate change or TikTok, the loneliness epidemic is rewriting the mechanics of our social culture and leaving young people fractured and disconnected.
I see the themes of “The Lonesome Crowded West” reflected in my own lonesome crowded East. We’re all overworked and overtired, watching the landscape be rendered unrecognizable in real time. We ache for lost familiarity and hunger for the new and exciting.
Things are different and things are the same in the best and worst ways. So it goes.
It’s a song about love that has become mechanical and meaningless. The music itself in the first half of the song feels like an anxious limbo, either waiting for a decision to be made, or to muster the strength to make it yourself. The production reminds me a bit of James Blake, and the vocals of Moses Sumney.
Part of the first verse goes,
Held you in my arms / Still I couldn't keep you close to me Living in a world Where sex is suicide (suicidal) Making love to feel inside, we watch each other die Living by a limit, reaching past our means
As the song goes on, it reaches a point where it slows down, as if to stop and think; momentarily, there are no words. The space for revelation feels too still, so racing arpeggiated fears bleed their way back in. It’s beautiful and briefly grandiose, woven with melodic wails from the anonymous singer. And then it all dies down again.
“Radiosex” is good company for moments of solitude. It’s five minutes and 35 seconds that seem like one big question, or that aforementioned limbo. Like swimming in space.
The rest of “Emotional Heat 4A Cold Generation” also has some very lovely tracks worth checking out, some of which I’ve played in sets before (“Micromoog“). JIL does a good job of combining the electronic foundations of their songs with organic, soulful, psychedelic elements. I’ll let you know what I find in further exploration of their discography.
He’s only got a few projects out, most of which are singles, but there is one that is very special: his 2015 EP, called “Cult Hymns.”
I originally found “Cult Hymns” in 2021, if memory serves, and it was sticky limerence at first listen. I remember I first became enamored with the concept of digital dystopia then (you know when you spend so much time being afraid of something, how it starts to become comforting?) as I was just about drowning in literature about class struggles and rotting social structures, transhumanist visual culture and desolate electronic ambience.
So, “Cult Hymns” was a perfect addition to that arsenal.
There are seven tracks, two of which feature R&B artist Daniel Caesar. The first track, “Brothers,” starts the EP off in unsettled whispers and a sustained synth that sounds a bit like a siren. They trickle off into flickers that, to me, seem to resemble city lights reflected in a polluted body of water.
In that VICE interview I mentioned, JIIN talks about being inspired by “The Sword of Doom,” a samurai movie from 1966 and “Akira,” the 1988 Japanese cyberpunk film, among other things. “Every time I watch something, I automatically soundtrack it in my mind, and vice versa. It can be a voice note or a weird thing I watched years ago. Probably why I can never sleep,” he says.
The next track on the EP is “Cult Logic,” a song that sounds like it would be played when the world ends; a thoughtful “Congratulations, it was all for nothing!” The song is disturbingly upbeat for its premise and speaks of feeling trapped in something, presumably a messy love whose time is up:
Eyes in paradise falls One more rock for the mockingbird call The sun rises up for me Isn't what you showed to me Let the water wash away your sin
The third song on the EP, “F***ed Up,” features Daniel Caesar. On it, Caesar lazily sings about being alone once more, getting caught up in women, work, and drugs to fill the void of a lost lover. JIIN’s production makes the intro to this one promising, but I’m honestly not the biggest fan of Caesar’s vocals against the music.
The fourth track, “Bury Me in Money,” is a fuzzy pool of chants and bass that throbs like a headache. After it is “Pole Dancer,” which bears samples of a koto and a synth so distorted it sounds like a scream. Both tracks are instrumental, contributing something a little trashy to this late-stage capitalist nightmare of a soundscape JIIN has created.
The last two tracks on “Cult Hymns” are my personal favorites: “God,” featuring Daniel Caesar and “Fell Thru,” another instrumental.
“God” is so eerie and suffocating at times; Caesar sings about succumbing to isolation as “Cult Hymns” comes to a climax. It sounds like a breaking point as he begs for affection. Bestrewed throughout the song is classic symptoms of madness: sounds of furious scribbles and pages being torn from a book. Makes you feel like you’re right there with him.
Then lastly, but definitely not least, is “Fell Thru.”
This song is a wasteland. It’s barren and beautiful, and I save it for the quietest hours of the night. I find something about it so tender, in the midst of its empty space and crumbling architecture. It’s unclear what’s being sung, but it sounds both like a “thank you” and a “goodbye.” It’s been a soundtrack to many a late night over the years, and I’m so glad to have unearthed it again.
Perhaps knowing so little about JIIN and his intentions for his work is what makes “Cult Hymns” such a treat. It allows you to make sense of the bleakness for yourself, deciding what each of the songs could be about, if at all; it’s equally nice to sit with it for what it is, too, letting the abyss do the talking.
“Drums of Death” is FKA twigs’ newest release, the third single from her album “EUSEXUA,” featuring producer Koreless and an array of sensuous textures.
It’s carnal and angry, the coarse motor thrum and the drum beat, but it retains some semblance of ethereality from twigs’ fae-like voice. Later in the song though, the softness of her voice almost adds to the sense of violence as she hisses “Hard metal / Silver stiletto / Devour the entire world / F*** it, make it yours / Do it just for fun.”
The word “eusexua” is one twigs made up herself, roughly meaning a sense of euphoria so deep it becomes meditative: a rapture that transmutes from heat in the core to a flush of the face, and every nerve becomes a live wire.
Different tracks on the album seem to embody different flavors of it, sometimes coming in airy and weightless, but “Drums of Death” is a meditation on booming bass and body movement. I have synesthesia (can you tell I love texture?) so “Drums of Death” is a fun excursion with all its superficial clicks and flits and its pounding basal heartbeat.
The video for the track was released as well, and it reminds me a lot of Aphex Twin’s “Windowlicker” with its strange choreography and dynamic camera movement. In it, twigs sports a pixie cut and a suit, dancing on an office chair in sync with her colleagues.
They all quickly lose the officewear not long after, prowling about in undergarments instead. Around 2 minutes and thirty-seven seconds is when twigs looks like herself again, and the entire video has fully devolved into strobing lights and unfiltered motion of limbs and muscle. The lighting complements the song well too, harsh enough to highlight the dancers’ anatomies in ways that are more graphic than they are sensual.
“Drums of Death” is infectious and peculiar, and I’m excited to see what other alien fruits “EUSEXUA” will come bearing.
I’ve recently made a return to ceremonial sound after a month-long venture into what I’d describe as “comfort genres” (for example, 90s eurotrash). One of my favorite Western artists that falls under that category is Roberto Musci, an Italian musician who makes incredible use of field recordings from the Eastern world.
The first song I ever heard of his, and perhaps my favorite song of all time, was “Claudia, Wilhelm R and Me” from his 2016 album “Tower of Silence.”
I’m not sure exactly how I came across it; I just remember being 13 and feeling like what I had just discovered was something profound. “Tower of Silence” has been tucked into my pocket since, and I tote it around like a lucky charm.
Released in 1983, it was a product of his travels about Africa, Asia, and the Middle East: “The Loa of Music” has field recordings of chants in different languages, instruments unfamiliar to mainstream Western music, and storytelling from across the globe.
Some of my favorite tracks from the album are the ones with Indian elements (sue me), including “Improbably Music,” “Katak Dance for H. Partch” and “Lazy Raga.”
They are delightful in their incorporation of the Hindustani sound, while still taking a contemporary, experimental stance on the endeavor.
“The Loa of Music” is a beautiful collection of songs to meditate to — move about to, breathe in rhythm with, sit outside to — and what better time for that than now.
“Hide In Plain Sight,” off of Jim James’ 2016 album “Eternally Even,” is a spiritual pondering.
For those who are unfamiliar, Jim James is one of the members of the rock band My Morning Jacket, and “Eternally Even” was his second solo release. The entire album is a work of art (I also really love “Same Old Lie,” which sounds wide-eyed like a revelation), so I recommend listening to it in full. My heart has however been taken captive by one track in particular.
Synths brazen and verses bearing profound truths in relatively uncomplicated language. The output is abstract, but the feeling is whole. It’s a floccose sound, like a semi-bitter mug of green tea; it is warm and leaves a certain crackle in the throat.
“Hide in Plain Sight” starts off as noise. We hear a bassline and it’s as definite as a heartbeat; the guitar kicks in and it’s blown out, wailing, alluring. And then Jim’s voice, smokey bourbon perfection, singing to us notes on absolutes (”Life’s eternal struggle / It’s just a dream / I hate to burst your bubble / Times change, entire lives reduced to rubble.”) and the contradiction of hoping like a human does (”But then what if the world became sweet again? / Hand in hand, everybody all the best of friends / Golden ends, could we handle it?”)
It’s a song for the end of the day, when change has become blasé; you’re tired, and you’re tired of being tired. Perhaps my favorite line in the whole song reflects that sentiment: “Life goes on with or without you.” It’s polysemous, which is what I love about it so much. It could be defeat, but it could also be sourcing solace in the surrender.
The best way to describe it might be as a soundtrack to an hour of recuperation, perfect for picking up the pieces.
”Space 1.8” is a 2021 album by Nala Sinephro that is meant for organic movement.
It’s a collection of eight different ambient tracks laden with kisses of harp and saxophone, all of which are perfect to sway, stretch or float to — whichever you prefer.
Each track is meant to have a personality of its own: “Space 1” is mellow, twinkly, and organic like komorebi. “Space 2” is significantly jazzier as the sax takes center stage; “Space 3” is funky and electric like a kaleidoscope. “Space 4” is jazz again, this time with the piano singing its backing vocals; “Space 5” is clicky at first, and then begins to take the sacral form of Hindustani hymns. “Space 6” sounds like not knowing where you are, and “Space 7” is lush jungle made of circuitry. Finally, “Space 8,” the longest on the album (about 18 minutes), is meant for stillness. It is my favorite one to play at the end of a yoga class: it floods the room with a warmth not previously present.
”Space 1.8” is the collaborative child of several different artists, including Sinephro on the pedal harp and modular synths, Lyle Barton on piano and Nubya Garcia, Ahnansé and James Mollison on saxophone, to name a few. It is so beautiful to witness the interactions of each instrument with each other, given the difference in dynamic between each one. Each track is like witnessing play between spirits of sonic wonder, as they bite, dance, entangle and engulf one another.
It is an album fit for reflection on curiosity and exploration, sacred in its manifestation.
Cover for 2015 single "Anhedoniac" by Andrei Eremin, featuring Kučka.
“Anhedoniac” brings to mind a beach in the wintertime, where the cold is pensive and the air is pristine; the swells of voice and sound are like solar flares in slow motion (or a lava lamp).
While I was looking for songs to play on one of my sets, I stumbled upon Andrei Eremin’s track “Anhedoniac” off of his 2015 EP “Pale Blue,” and was immediately intrigued. It features vocals from the charmingly extraterrestrial Kučka, and it is hypnotic.
Part of why I find it so fascinating is because, in my opinion, it kind of lacks the distinct 2010s electropop sound. In my head it’s comparable to “Innocence” by Flume, featuring AlunaGeorge, in how its deep-space atmosphere removes it from the throes of time. The synths of “Anhedoniac” wax and wane like ocean under a permanent red sun, and although ambient, the song is not aeriform.
Alongside Eremin’s gorgeous production, Kučka’s voice contributes a svelte substance to the mix. She takes her time, as if she was reading a poem she had written herself. Her vocals are a sensory experience: the words “[Y]ou could destroy me” sound like a sworn truth as they come out of her mouth, a revelation and a confession all at once.
Eremin has worked with several artists since, including the likes of Hiatus Kaiyote, Tash Sultana, Sampa the Great, MAY-A, Ta-ku, Wafia, and Kllo, but has not put out any new tracks of his own. He’s an elusive presence for sure, but his influence is not insubstantial, however quiet it may be. Here’s to hoping we get something new from him one of these days.
In an effort to become more of a musical elitist, I’ve started collecting cassettes.
Not just any cassettes, but obscure punk cassettes.
The most recent tape I got my hands on, “Aluminum-Free” by a band aptly named Deodorant, was release #4 of a collective known as Open Palm Tapes, a Chicago-based punk label and distro dedicated to “the sh–t that slaps.”
Open Palm Tapes has a cultivated image, with a strong DIY ethos evidenced by zine-style graphics and eggy illustrations. Deodorant — debuting with their 2018 LP “Smells Good” — is but one of many bands affiliated with the Open Palm.
Poster included with “Aluminum Free” EP cassette
Part of what attracted me to Deodorant — aside from the $3 price tag — was the eclectic artwork on the tape sleeve, which featured a collage of photographic images, illustrations and the beloved male leads from the 2019 film “The Lighthouse.”
A write-up by Ralph Rivera Jr. characterizes Deodorant thusly:
“…Deodorant: organic, time-tested, mother approved, Aluminum Free. Guaranteed to upwrench and unclench the stench of monotony from yer fetid pits, leaving only the Phunkiest of Pheromones behind.”
The “Phunk”
I wasn’t sure what to expect when I fed the tape into my cassette player, but the garage rock-infused freestyle rap of “Bunta Groovin’ / Boast Mk. II” certainly was not it.
It’s not uncommon for punk tracks to feature spoken word — Uranium Club, for instance, makes ample use of it — but Deodorant’s intentional rhyme scheme and old school flow was an unequivocal punk take on rap.
Laden with references to punk rock ethos (“smash the fash and them blue lives bastards now”) and subversions of opulence (“I’m slamming in some Gucci hand-me-downs”)
Cover for “Smells Good” by Deodorant
Conversely, track three (“Top”) followed the prototype of punk spoken word — rhyme and flow coming secondary to lyrical content, with instrumental backing serving as the figurative “spinal cord” — before devolving into genre-characteristic chaos.
The prior track, a viciously garagey guitar slant titled “King Samo,” kept up the EP’s frenetic energy.
Other tracks, like “Deodorant vs. Son of Baconator” and “Guitar Hero World Tour” smack of classic garage punk, ridden with distortion and maddening guitar riffs.
