Way back when I was six Vicodin-deep, nearly a second blunt smoked, 14 years old, and nodding to Donuts behind the Catholic church up the street from my grandparents, it ripely occurred to me that there is no more room in New York unless you build up; this church was built with a school and nunnery all atopple of itself. Thus, what is a young Brooklyn producer to do if a Detroit room-for-expansion DJ (J Dilla) crushed the scene years before now? Go WONTON SWOOSH, like WHAT up in the peace sign, all the middle fingers blazin’ off like a bucket of glass shards dropping on marble with a crystal sunset backdrop, including frozen drinks stronger than a shot of 151.
Turn on the radio: is this a car commercial or an actual song? Problem has been infinitely solved, as Lord $M$ took what beat-makers taught before, built upon it (SEE: his current terrain in BK building upon him) and reapporpriated every original aspect you’ve ever loved about music. And the way WONTON SWOOSH is constructed seems really appropriate for leading into 2015 with grace. Side-A is packed full of all solo production slaughter. Side-B is more collaborative, set aside the Izy instrumental for the last track. Butt-bumping throughout, th’oh.
Fortunately, I’ve bared witness to the allusiveness of “What is…” WONTON SWOOSH? It’s ordering matching shorts and shirt off eBay around 3A.M. Then poppin’ some fresh NK Air all day on a rooftop, so at night, the navy and white stripes blur out the red jagged WONTON SWOOSH spoon effect into the most leisurely swagged-out prison outfit gone limp-walk.
Become something new with Lord $M$. Listen to the architecture of WONTON SWOOSH below. Snag the tape off Bootleg Tapes immediately.
“The Vile Stuff”
Every year, on the second Friday in August, a local man in South Queensferry, Scotland is covered head to toe in the spiky seeds of the burdock plant: burrs. He’s paraded through town, stopping at landmarks through the day to have drams of whiskey poured into his mouth. The burryman is not allowed to speak for the entire day, and keeps his arms raised in an exhausting, awkward crucifix to avoid the painful sting of the plants which cover his whole body.
As I’m fond of telling my rapidly bored friends, Richard Dawson made my favorite album of last year. The Glass Trunk was a cobbled exorcism, a museum of living, screaming folks at the edge of life, voices lent a certain philosophical weight by their shared brutality, their inescapable past, an uncanny valley of the dead. Nothing Important manages the difficult feet of finding posterity in the present and the intensely personal, of capturing the epiphanic spiraling of a long drunken night in Newcastle, of lifelines borne along a dot-to-dot of warm beer and sour trebles. Richard Dawson unpacks his liver, like he once did with a carved Wooden Bag, on a song that still dissolves me fizzing like a morning Alka Seltzer.
It’s difficult to think of a lyricist able to transfigure childhood story swapping, city center debauchery, all out hilarity (that careful breath between bum and bag!) and supernatural invocation so spectacularly. Wild Beasts tried, but left a taste of ironic machismo that is just utterly transcended by the oddball, belligerently witty hero of The Vile Stuff. Harry Wheeler’s damp, ale soaked video captures the mood perfectly, poking fun at the exoticising gaze of the Hisham Mayet’s of this world, while leaning on iconographies that are suitably unfixed and just as entrancing. This aint no supplanted religion of the book, but a spiritual message as engrossing and wild as it’s warped pilgrims. As the video implodes, we are left with a sense that, like all the properly enjoyable traditions of our weird little island, this is a spirituality that involves a fair amount of booze and a journeying that, thudding on, never quite ends, unless in hospital.
Who said epiphanies only lasted a moment?
• Richard Dawson: http://www.richarddawson.net
Like bubbles twinkling across a rough surface, popping upon each other, silence is broken in a forest of digital vegetation, and a roaring outcry of the animal chasing your ass is almost too close for comfort, but the loops are broken by a leg running into it to fast, thus stumbling toward another vat of terror is your unintentional prerogative. Those aren’t birds you hear, but silenced bombs dropping in the horizon, while rain feels like empty shells dripping into a pool of water warping from calm to whirlpool, so swimming out feels like a challenge in inertia. Upon exiting the waters, the holographic vine-life ensnares your shape, and intertwines you into a system of numbers and fluid working algorithms no human is tangibly privy to, yet your case remains a first, as traversing the ultimate survival terrain is audibly a reality.
Yearning Kru released fifth ascents via (digital label) Quantum Natives, and it’s nothing short of the adventure you’ve been waiting to take. As well, each track is “remixed” so you’ve a NPCs helping direct your thought! Didn’t know that was possible until you plugged in, huh? Plug into fifth ascents by Yearning Kru immediately below:
• Quantum Natives: http://quantumnatives.com
“uked organ bit”
I don’t even care that the drums on “uked organ bit” by Totuls are essentially a “Bucephalus Bouncing Ball” clone, because this song is too fucking good to ignore. Disregarding a song due to the fact that it sounds and/or reminds (albeit contains) aspects of another song is as ignorant as not talking to someone because they have similar facial cues and vocal inflections as someone else you know. Grow up, why don’t cha? Besides, that simple, sublime, mournful synth line commands the attention of the listener just as much as the drums do, so clam up Charlie, and get with the program.
“uked organ bit” is off of Totuls’ latest EP, Death Fuck Acid, and you can hear the rest of the EP by clicking on the highlighted word ‘clicking’ that you just previously read… not the second instance of ‘clicking’, but the first one… the highlighted one.
• Totuls: https://soundcloud.com/totuls