Rewarding ourselves with something that promotes an invaluable, rather dainty, also thirst quenching (for those wishing to drown out a diminutive desertification of lesser than lets do in what’s done), disheveling of the vintage punk/rock/alternative in what has predisposed the interests of those who may have forged allegiances with the ill refuted, unrequited throwback to what Cage The Elephant have prescribed as the antidote to the rather quarrelistic chastising of some sponging off of some deadened weight. That being said, and as those who follow in suit with galvanizing the maintenance of purport the perused animation of projection, we might appertain the disclosure of pumping life back into a grossly vindictive and cyclically squeamish profiteer of something that a’ long las with its silkening sheen pulsates nitro glycerine into as might have, yes, been aforementioned, an unquenchable quantum. This, Plastic Visions, pales in comparison, once again lowering the clanging pang of filling the quota of, la ta da da a desirable commodity. Though a thorough pedigree, and abstemiously rationing denigrating analogies, Cage The Elephant have torn from the flesh, by throwing us a bone, though the rapport would bury us in a dogged scavenging of milking this one not only, for true die hards, but by giving us that promised land of proverbial chew toys in punk extravaganza, one of preternatural distinction- instinctually forthright and becoming- Plastic Visions allocates the crimping of more than an insatiable appetite to arrive without a frill, but this one puts the kill in filial patronage. After you sir. Indeed, the implacable self-serve colloquial refinement, does more than float- it walks on water- kind of like the scream for ice cream- a logistical lost cause. Call it what you may, but this crème glace takes the gray out of your day with a hip hip hooray. Skipping across cumbersome stereotypes, the Pixies might lodge a tumultuous cannery of set germination, but rather gaining its dexterous texture of raw scabbard of required listening this festive festy takes the plunge with a little grunge. Of course, where this one takes us draws the acutely bestowed template that as the back pages to some genre defining racketeering, the nitty gritty here might slightly awaken the statuesque imperatives of artists like aged veterans and Californian meddlers as clandestine fortunate sons of sound, Pavement, and rather fortuitous newcomers in punkish chiccany, the revered, go on get it together, Parquet Courts. Fitting into the slot in what might accommodate a, a maelstrom of if this were to ratify the ecunumenic altercation of sci-fi, the death troopers, of flashing more than inexorable promotion, the little insineration raises a curious restitution. Rather scratchy vocalization that run the gauntlet in terms of accessory bleat to the beat of some impassioned thrashing, that though voluntarily ragged, find an impervious form in jagged salient ratchedy rag timing ratitouie. Ratchet or wretched, the infuriated complexity is a fervent portrayal of making a hasty raconteur of what might entice organized chaos. Where there was at least a little common courtesy in availing the conjecture of devising a semblance of lickety split, get a load of this shit “Kamikaze” buries a bird dog with a little dog gone dat be dat- rat a tat tat. Quintessentially composed of hiding from ones best, this one beats us to the priest. “Dear Lord forgive me for I have quinned.” Anywho, going straight for the jugular of some rather quaint yet requested by yours and yours alone, we are marched head first into the sacred vessel of secluded guitar driven rampart. Be forewarned as the estimated time of arrival, well, countless derivation aspires. “Now I Know”- what were you saying? And knowing was quite becoming. But then again promoting promises with clarity compromises the impervious attenuation of doing more than just, let’s say, praying for the coming of Christ, but lending and ear and going on a limb in to the extraneous analogous world of returning to the cocoon of commissioning something that operates under inscrutable pressures. Left hanging by a thread, throwing punches to wind, throwing caution to the wind, and making this required listening without question. The certain selections require some parchment. Indeed, drawing fire and wiping that hard earned, deeply irrevocable tear from my eye, I can say, through thick and thinned and as far fetched as owing you all that inhumane crocheting of the immoveable objection, I stutter into submission and as I raise a fang to curious endowment, the all inclusive device of becoming a fringe dweller, take this, Plastic Visions, into your home knowing that your unscrupulous tenure of once up keeping a normal social life has pulled the shortest straw that one might find obtainable. Though no Cold War, cold sore, or even tapping you on your shoulder, this one is the simple articulation of keeping yourselves behind closed doors. Rolling back the Iron Curtain could retain the simple delight of refraining from the frightening frivols of your own zealotry.
Seemingly over the hill would be the malcontented who step to something steeped in what else but an unstoppable formula. Though the ubiquitously sprightly solo syncopation of utilizing, what some might say is an heir to fastidity yet rather the first in line when something like the iPad have the rather unscathed, as computers are a little less aggressive of a pastime, than lets say, Guns N’ Roses and though that may have been marching you on some infuriatingly convoluted tangent, we draw comparison like the also inherently trashy analogy of track marks across a junkies arm as this one draws blood (like comparisons) with the entrenched multifariousness of those who like to advance ambience with technically proliferated antiquation. So much for leisurely lambasting- let us lament for what might be the tenacious and also triumphant legitimization of Mauro Remiddi who for all intents and purpose, beyond any comprehensible grasp of exerting differentia, has legalized fun by means of synthesizer and moreover dream pop. Differ what may be a bumper to bumper orientation of verifiably masterminding, what else by an intrinsic heirloom of selectivity. More and more we come to certain ordinance that the unrequited foreclosure of what some might say is one man inexplicable disclosure of raining on one’s parade. To whom it may concern, the silken prevalence mothers inequity by how should we say- showering us with a prestige that speaks quality over quantity. The bubbling atmospherics speak of uncertainty, whilst the celestial lobes are frequented with some prescience that forebodes illusion. Velvety terminations validify the gossamer production of the year. Bearing the hand of the pontiff of so many night looking for an answer that might be redeemable by not knowing how deeply ascertained a compensation of malleable caretaking. This one pampers. Indeed, we are nursed into submission as the far fetched world of doing so much with so little requires an aptitude of mercantile susceptibility. We are not all born to the wind. However, my friends where the pen is mightier than the sword we require that all signs, and all things under one sun, leave traces where the shadows fall upon the isolated cavern of escaping with what little dignity we still have in tact. Careening through some infantile stages of keyboard insulation, the inoperable schism of minimalism, forms allegiances with no greater a force than some vast aviation of providing a silver lining to the niceties of a little swathe and wraithe, as one may, of making the march to the wretched bowels of something that toys with the spectral ambivalence of not knowing what we have settled our supplication for a mere breathtaking rendezvous with whom but withstand the monsoon, but for that vision accrumed it is my honour to predict Porcelain Raft and their Silent Speech Ep will motion the interstellar traffic of just when and where the cajoling of insufferably beautiful stars, like the music discloses, scream across the night sky in a twinkle of a lullaby, and even a guy who wondered by and let out a little sigh for not knowing why and however hardened to the sky. Caliente quintessentially.
From the makers of anything but a hapless self aggrandizement we welcome Diamond Junk and album besides the rather innocuous undertone of relatively usurping a inadvertent let down by not for one overhyping the band, that being the Portland trio of Sun Angle, but in less than utilitarian prosopaiea leading us to believe that these puppeteers of some music that takes on a life of its own would permit more than its modest disclaimer. And yes the acutely opportune relinquishing of jumping the gun without offending anyone but themselves has acquired some postponement of unmitigated, let just say, savvy to bolster the sequestering of set savoir-faire. The fun just begins as we stretch the admiration of some rather riddled underbelly of musical moraiety by some rather calamitous operendi of clamorous ostentatiousness. The opening notes of “Raspery” glistens like a tertiary quotient. By that I mean it is the sum of all parts that are the placard of some well endowed musicianship. What we have here, rather than a failure to communicate, is the failure to renumerate. Whilst the flagship raises it sail to audaciousness it is quite trite indeed as the forfeiture is rather heinously galumphing. That’s not to say that as the perversely boisterous bombardment reconcile by configuring, without convolution, the chambermaid of some malleable rock stars gone vavooey, had Huey the Louis, making this one extravagantly gooey.he mockery we have some salient admonishing of slander of little gander for over yonder. A A little dap will doo wit a Pabst the Blue and we might as well see this one through. That being the first go round the off hand account might gestate a little Rosh ambo to expediate the venerable dissuasion from becoming an alta moda of resigned gesticulation. In this case, sign language might become the unflincheness of throwing psychedelic sham wows on the tableturized heart beat of taking the disco out of inferno and making it burn yo. Not that I know, but the convivial doo rags of paisley born main liners is just a slight disclaimer away. This is 66, 69 or whatever may have you, we buckle up for something that squeezes its way past plasticity and undoubtedly, tearing away on some inherent blasé. Blaspheming balderdash, that sneaks up on you like a rash, here me out, has squandered the ineffable clause of some long forgotten generation that oodles over the sciatic nerve endings of burning out faster than well for lack of anything but passing the torch to yours truly, as suggestions exempt of belligerent hearsay are welcome, and in inanely fanaigue conjecture the constipation or lack of having an electrician or suave pedantic, the colloquial fanfare require the grossly innate insemination of muttering under my breath- a flash in the pan. That being said, for love nor money, money being the operative I find it an inalienable, to desecrate something that might be achievable if you like to remain within some amiability, but Diamond Junk has some perishability that freshens up to some sheer collaborative wooing of even the most staunch vehement. For instance, the rather demure requited dissimilation rectifies with unassailable personification in the saultry consecration of “Yes Beach” and “Rectangle” that take pain with a little shimmering of the benign. Of course the harrowing kitsane vocalisation, a throwback to synth pop contingents profits from some elaboration of some rather gingerly by partisan psychedelic troupe of rendering glammy as verifiable pomp. Who’s to say that everybody but me and my monkey can shall and will determine some fervent miscellania of Balthazar and his meager flock rationing some starving populous for a romp with the radically souped up scaling of the musical inseminaries. Thus, what was it there, oh yes, a friend within reaches to the farthest spans of the globe with merely a carnival of some upending stupor of verifiable saunter of musical pervasiveness. Whilst not shattering anything but a quite servility to keeping your hands to yourself whilst trying to maintain status quo, the absolutely unavoidable pastures are a wanton manifestation of guiding us safely from one keepsake opulence to an even more grandiose dance of the sugar plum fairies. To be or not to be, we thwart the bastion of goodwill of mankind by hiding from the light of day whilst far and wide we become enamoured with the indelible charm of signing off to the abstemious lava lamp of erecting the preferred nomenclature of saying this one sucked. Now grab a thumb and provide yourself with the oohing and ahing of those who may reconcile to the slightly stately request of making that flash in the pan the mother of all zippity doo da’s the moth, and as moth’s do, providing countless hours of unadulterated awe at welcoming the rather weakened apparition of frying our brains to the contraction clasping electrocution of our dearly departed friend. As the “moth”-er of all invention this one flashes the regalia of doing very much the same, as the moth may beg to differ, as going out with a bang. Chimmy-changa not included.
Under the excruciatingly marginalized moniker best rock band, and I’ll say it again as a band that burned a crater in my brain, Roger Water, David Gilmour, Richard Wright, and Nick Mason have experimented quite profusely with accepting such a watershed of opportunity to spread their wings and learn to fly again- to fly once again. And believe it or not it was as organic as the goat herder who milked it for all it is wad worth- that in the bucolic sense that the cow from Atom Heart Mother helped pasteurize not only some impeccable album covers, but some rather exorbitant farm hand of musical tenure that spans the globe as yet another fantasimal overture where the likely lads leave us in what else but udder disbelief. “Learning to Fly” as has been widely accepted for all those who need satisfaction in lending an ear to a band that reunited with The Division Bell in 1994 and have at the last minute without beseeching the threadbare ensemble of leaving a few empty Doms as these Oxford grads have returned the favor by putting the wonder in wonderful. To soar the skies would be an understatement. In fact, the short and skinny, the sharp shooters basically threw down some pretty, pretty, pretty rock tunes. Some might say that like the confederation has acquiesced we still brace for world domination. Astronomie Dome, short for don’t fuck with Water’s et al- gives us, along with a mercenaries opportunity to gander the momentus occasion, with a rather exasperating overture. Not that it’s any of my beeswax, but on any given Sunday, the Londonderry legioneers, mind you me, have rather devastated, leaving us rather shy, as I can attest, of any band coming as close to making up the moments that make up the tall day by shortening my breath as one by one we wonder what in the world may have come over us. Breathtaking stuff really.
As you may have noticed, Waters began touring quite exclusively, heavily, and without restraint tapping out in finality, as yes I do believe dinosaurs still roam the earth, with a blockbuster finale of The Wall their November 30, 1979 release of some tragic surrogation of what might have been post-traumatic stress syndrome from the war, pertaining to the album, in yes, where once Matt Sundin and the Nordiques once reigned, where else but Quebec City. That’s where the latest tour culminated and the foghorn was sounded for pulling the shortest straw out of any one man in any one country- which just might have been me for being predisposed. Roger Water’s notoriety smashed the vehement scratch, merely a head wound, of dropping to the lowest common denomination, by enacting a vehement monster in what many might have considered growing wings and learning to fly. And there’s a lot of that done around here. Supposed to anyway. Going back to the album itself and in many respects as you may recollect as according to Rolling Stone may be the most favored rock adaptation, the war for actor Bob Geldolf who starred in the 80′s depiction of a man like many a man who had as the collection maintains- stumble we might fall. So as you might know, all roads leading to Rome, Roger Water’s delivered in a state of the art, might we say, pandemic running through the veins of man who knows no shame and in a game of high stakes, well, fancy me this, we’d be wishing you could hear, as the pun might intend as his monstrous stage Archepellon dusted off the well rehearsed vehicle of some welcoming attrition as you may know the incitement of The Wall had everybody dropping a brick in their pants. Beyond the Waters saga, we have the remaining members of Pink Floyd- David Gilmour, Nick Mason, and Richard Wright who have also, under the rather unanimously unpretentious pomp, as it works both ways, the illustrious vagabond of Pink Floyd had been popping in and out of the limelight as gentle nod of affection towards legions of bemoaning fans who had been deserted us with salient solo projects and some rather incubated resiliency with a unassailable sugaring of anything BUT a perverted pedagogue. Though their sightings have been quite intermittent, as far as I’m aware their still preemptive of a blast. Let’s be clear, once I have drafted the Cartesian plane of some serial atonement it vaguely resembles some scaly inadvertence that the reunion hasn’t allocated more interest as for love nor money who knows if we’ll ever see the original lineup ever, ever, again. I live in fear. As the dictum purports that doesn’t inhibit us from gazing over the rather inalienable diopsies of the crystalline vision accrued of some rather insatiable requirement for comforting the riddled acidic naysayer into some weathering of the storm of where, as you may psychedelic rock and some quite notable rock anthems, “The” Pink Floyd, as you may recall, have taken to some distant horizons of pioneering a sound that can’t be beat. Indeed, they are clutch as there nobody in their right minds who could inherently withstand such ground-breaking accentuation. The like the weather born Jayzus have arrived at a mirror ball of shattering the faces of something that puts the musical paper machee back on the map. Indeed, not to cop a phrase- To boldly go where no man has gone before.
Left broken hearted and without a pot to piss in, we deliver ourselves, well where I have unrestrictedly guided demonstratively, a slight shibboleth of advancing the condolences of a band that holds the bastion to great selectivity. It is under this unscrupulous admonition, that reveals a world of cultured antiquity, that berated parquet as I may be the beauty of the Floyd is that it speaks in many tongues. Indeed, the silver tongued catastrophe could seat even the most revered centurion into the dismissal of more than a few rather benign dissuasion. From Piper At The Gates Of Dawn to Animals, from Wish You Were Here to Momentary Lapse of Reason, we fire out of the starting gates, toning down for some lean and inherently mean communion of the altar of what made the threshold of some irate iconoclasm as far as the eye can see. Indeed, Roger Waters steady pulsations on the bass which take on some colorful discernment, as well as cracking vocals, switching up from time to time as the promotion of one ravishingly handsome and high octane guitar playing in Gilmour, leaving only Wright to fill in with some distinguished marksmanship on the keys, piano or whatever you may have it, we see that Mason is the heart and soul of a band that is not only smashing but drastically dashing in their might as synergizer of that one and only home to a fastidious entrepreneurship of some fleeting gasconade of being that one and only upper crust who would stand for anything less than squandering their bogies at the Hawthorne National for a good ole fashioned rolling in the sand or therefore sand traps. Indeed, a fierce component of wiping sleep from your eyes. Despite building an empire of some exclusive romp through twisted metal, compulsive commitment, and some rather begrutten hamming up of some dubiously questionable unflinchedness- we blunder on as the unaisaible grandeur, not to squash infidelity, reasons with the immortality of being a well oiled machine that totally eradicates cliché for some atisinal indoctrination. One that slides that envelope, cd included, into the tethering, of Jimminy Crickets, a small fortune bestowed before our eyes. Indeed: “Welcome my son, welcome to machine…”
Blaspheming Bonzai for my chicken noodle sun Jai. The titillating scintilla of some rather ubiquitously charming masterminding see’s the sounds of what else but the red light district of some rather inoperable professional production in Co La’s rather implacable atmospherics. This one is to be by state of self impudence, more like insolence, a deft touch of not being able to pin it down. Indeed, the hearty dose of some esteemed diabolical genius see’s that once and for all as simians of the rather undarning task of fleeing the scene of a crime that was never committed. Indeed, it goes more than under the radar with it’s freakish facticity for some squeamish alta moda that’s begging to see the light of day. I say red light district because the sounds of what might have been your Szechuan face the delivery of some uncanny restitution in Moody Coup had me more virulent than a water chestnut marinated in soy. As a friend, we’ll let bygones be bygones as necessity becomes the top order of the day. This one is as far east as something that differs childish antics for a case of what you get is what you see. This is a must have for innocent bystanders who see the flashes of cherries from cigarettes dissipate into the ether as the streaming orange’s and red’s scream across the pitter patter of the rainy season as Diamond Taxi takes to the mean streets looking for the only alternative- a five dollar surcharge for welcoming strangers onto foreign soil. This, as a forlorn hindsight of some channeling of the restrictive aorta’s of sound, one’s that pump the pathogenic neurobiotics to the dendrite of the chosen capitulation, sees that the smooth operation of some rather benign commodification. Like a 10-20mg dosage of blood thinner this one waters down what might have been a fatal accident for some painted manifestation of serene nomenclature. Oriental fundamentals, Shanghai slouths, and not to escape the lily field of countless derivation, we shake up a bag of fortune hunting electronics that seem to seize the day as much as one deadly snap of the chop sticks. The fun is just beginning. Indeed, though this one is a little slippery as the sounds go skirting into the night the sacred mushroom makes its bountiful sojaunt into the haunted cavarns of democracy gone wild. Of course, I welcome those who are are ably bodied to man up about who and when the set facetation requires prime candidacy for being the laisser faire led better of something that, including the warped sense of the zoetic offering of the Asiatic, blended in fuscia of some stoning of prisoners of war. When the dicing of the Shitake lends and ear to its fair weathered custodian in the bonnet, let just say champignon, we know we have made the rounds of one too many warlords throw the veil over the Himalaya’s like a blanketed Christining, of about bloody time, opening up a ski resort in China. Here we go… The celestial importation broods in complex rythmia and insulates the inoculation of being dragged down by incubated emotions. This is the birth of more than just sweet and sour but something that hails fresh off the boat. This finds a mere gesticulation, a rather trite procurement, by manning the wheel of a bicycle after too many wantons. And I’m wanted… Fortune cookie. Though touching it remains out of harms way. That is before you wake up out of your opiated séance in, according to Chinese folklore, the Year of Yachtzee. For all those in the know that would be a rather triumphant escalade of some fuming enigma that is about as explosive a Kung Ho Phat Choi. Of course, being one and the same an import that could not be thwarted. The New Year, the New Year, the New Year. This would make an elaboration of some guiding principle that might blow over a couple of stilted labyrinths of China men going on their own way minding their own business. In turn, though domesticated as much as no other than lets say the mighty mighty spring roll, or even chicken fried rice, Co La have disenfranchised American’s for the last time by bringing home something that speaks of both virtue and necessity. Moody Coup is that Asian persuasion that might have Gangus Kahn getting baptised on our very own home turf. You be my guest of honour.
Streaming for your plaissir: http://pitchfork.com/advance/90-moody-coup/
I don’t know what Justin Timberlake was thinking when Adonnis boy toy extrodinaire became as much as a flash in the pan as your money as it gets engulfed by the rather trite expenditure at bay. Already Almost Done is as spendthrift with calling the shots, this is in rather bad taste, but throwing shots down the hatch as Carnival Casquaffi hopes to make his shots with the boom boom a shot to the heart. Spending money on liquefying girls wrap around wranglers, in your honour Sir Timberlake, had me in one foul swoop for mankind taking a shot in the arm. In any event though Timberlake has according to the first amendment the right to rape, I hate to say this, but as a friend of a friend, I never liked getting raped so much in my whole life. You should try it yourself sometime. In any event, before I make a total baboon out of myself or even cry for battered women, Justin you my dear friend have stooped to all time lows. You should be raped for such an offense. After all you premadonnas have been raped for the very last time, or you consider checking yourself into a home for flagrant preventative measures, rest assured you weren’t that funny the first go round, I’d have to say that the gayness at stake had me green with envy. If only I could afford to not only see with my very own eyes, as the yanking emissions of some very delectable, take this one to heart, the lavish externalization of blowing a small fortune on being rather peculiar. And in come the masses to blow up the Timberlake album as much as I’d like to blow up my girlfriend. Go figure. Now if I could only take it one step at a time. Otherwise I might have to explode on the scene. So much for the stately promise of making history an ecunumenic integer. Come again, come again. Anyways Justin has found a formula for making me hate. His R&B is exceptionally revolting and if the by goodness gracious Statue of Liberty wasn’t scared of more fire for hire Justin might be hosing off more than shots, blasting those slots, and giving it all he gots for raping the minds of teeter tots. By the way, a long long time ago, when Justin was still squeaking by as gay excuse the gaiety in my timbre, but to this day, according to Walter Chronkite, gay was gay for a reason. Go on get gay. 50 bucks to anyone who might make me feel gayer than Justin.
As the death toll squashes heads like a fresh splat of what else but mousaka, Greek lasagna or a derivation of such paramount semblances, we rest assured that the renaissance of metal in Agrimonia’s Rites of Separation unleashes a plumalaceous skipping of the heart but throw in a spine tingling mimosa and what we have here is no other but a classic. However what Greek is to legend this Gothenburg dissertation is about as tasty as a tomato and as down home as a potato. Some furry fiend donned the garden a safe home for peas and carrots. Forget about that liquidation sale that had you pumping the gas on that Ford Taurus and save your pennies for a good ole Buscan biscotti. That way you can be sure that as an afterthought money, like vegatables, for all you idiots out there, grows on trees. There I let the tree have its way with you. This one has capricious embedded in a state of the tart molding that gets offs all high and mighty on that humble pie. Rhubarb or no rhubarb, take it from a friend, take minimalism as your ally. For those who have been told time and time again that Satan aims to please himself first and foremost would should take into consideration a band that ask very little of their compatriot. Though I may have been lying about money growing on trees, suggestion box over there, one things for sure if there’s any growing going on o’er here its surely the wings that sprouted as this album had me take flight. This one provides a little saveur with a view. If you have a knack for avant garde orchestrations of the highest calibre let this one sow the seeds of some well advanced tombstone, of like I said taking the classics into paneling as an after thought something that aspires to survival. This does more than swing from trees it carries the fruit of some sweet succulency. You know what I’m getting at here, but if it was for the pumpernickel, we wouldn’t all want to die at the same time here would we. This one forms a pattern of some crystalline blossoms that represents the deadened world of antiquity, and for all you back seat drivers that want to lend a hand, I’d just have to say I’d rather die than take you home. As I may, for whatever reason, I insist you sit this one through as death and even better death metal takes on a life of its own.
By the way Agrimonia (which is also a flower) is streaming here for all of y’all who’d like to grow a life or kill a potato (for your information are already dead [ABIOTIC]) http://www.invisibleoranges.com/2013/05/album-stream-agrimonia-rites-of-separation/