They Spunks

A Sporran Of Carrots

Some things never change. For instance, you watch ONE (okay, six) Lil Penny commercial on YouTube, and then its Penny Marshall this, and Abe Lincoln that. Gah YouTube, quit telling me what to watch. I’m a free-thinking searching-surfer, and your recommendations can’t influence me (but srly thx bunches for that Pen Marsh binge. Toats lawlz-ville).

One other thing that never changes: the glory of a bizarre, groovy, and noisy rock record. See: A Sporran Of Carrots. Australian freaks They Spunks sound like they smashed their 4-track with a toy firetruck, put it back together with a dog’s collar, then used it to recorded some tracks. Then, if I may continue to indulge myself, they sent their songs off to Albert’s Basement with a note attached that read: We know you weren’t expecting this, but sorry for the delay. That probably didn’t happen, but you get the idea. All I mean is A Sporran Of Carrots is weird enough to keep your attention, but also weird enough to keep your attention. Oh wait, I already said that. What I meant was it’s weird enough to keep you attention, but good enough to weird your intentions. Shit. That’s not what I meant. Just buy this tape.

• Albert’s Basement:


“Cry of the Phoenix” (excerpt)

Smoke rising like a new born from Mother Earth’s mysterious womb. A cloud like Her face in the midst of trees striping Her features in the distance. Traveling at the speed of wind, twitching trees and brush and kin in Her wake of air. Melting Her feet into a sea of sand, feeling the washing of water upon Her being. Natural. Exposure of the triple vestigial. Creation for the sake of Her mentality. Earth’s mentality. Queen of existence. Mother Earth is the only Conjuror that bares witness to the “Cry of the Phoenix.”

Conjuror (a.k.a. Ian Adcock) been tirelessly trudging his keys throughout the kills of Madison, WI last year, mustering up the most natural and mirage riddled album entitled Black Velvet, Dead Flowers, conducted where he feels most sane: the wild. Four tracks dwelling on “medicinal” long-form drones shrouded in a robe of “black velvet,” adorning a thrown of rotted wood that fit perfectly on Golden Cloud Tapes. Shit is burning and out now on cassette!

• Conjuror:
• Golden Cloud Tapes:



TOMCREW! This label is four for four from full court. Run by Tokyo Hands, affiliate of Brighton label Donky Pitch and player of our Hopsctoch day party, the label has four releases over the past four years. The club is exclusive and you’re invited to stare longingly into a live stream of Myspace’s Tom accepting friend requests.

Jake Funke (it’s like he was destined) is the newest member of Tom’s crew and where Nangdo got hype, Funkss gets deep. A graduate of Red Bull Music Academy’s Bass Camp and self-described meme lover, the Raleigh-based terror brings us his heeeeavy debut EP Radon. A mix of whirls, clicks, and claps drown in a dark, dank tide. The bass is strong enough to end relationships. Play it in the club and watch as people become unsure of whether they should dance or get emotional alone in the corner. Radon excites and lifts. I couldn’t pick a track to single out so stream the entire EP below.

• Funkss:

Masaya Ozaki


Masaya Ozaki’s bronze harmonics jut into the open room and get minced and toggled, leaving liver-spot holes in plain view that demand to be filled with the low-fidelity drone of a rising tide. Despite the gradual increase in volume and density, the tide remains in the distance, too far to make out, buried further by Mathias Van Eecloo’s constellations of specks. The constellations, captured in various modes of focus while being nurtured on a window pane, are illuminated by a Eureka bulb shedding its outer envelope.

• Masaya Ozaki:
• Eilean Records:

Dean Blunt


There’s a new Dean Blunt track out entitled “WAR REPORT,” and you know how these things go. It was posted on that SoundCloud page he keeps using and it’ll probably be deleted in a few days to a week. But you know how these things go: you love the web, and this song is pretty “pop” as far as these things go, yet Dean’s still pretty “chilled.” You breathe the web now, or at least you’re trying to merge it with your molecular structure, but that’s starting to sound pretty cliché and there’s still a lot of other stuff out there. “Keys to city,” he keeps saying, but cities are getting pretty liminal. I’m going to die soon enough and I’m not super stoked about that, but that’s another cliché.

See Dean Blunt live on W. 23rd in NYC on Thursday February 12.

• Dean Blunt:


CHOCOLATE GRINDER is our audio/visual section, with an emphasis on the lesser heard and lesser known. We aim to dig deep, but we'll post any song or video we find interesting, big or small.