Mouth breathes in again, having forgotten, as we all do sometimes, that something which is so important. Essential. And with each breath? A pulse, an om, a bass, Ament. Vedder accompanies:
Make no bones about it, this is a riot grrl, Mogwai-like, psychedelic effort. Vocals are damn near impossible to fully understand and should we survive to the next cut, I’ll bet you five bucks the lyrics are lost forever. They bark orders against the blazing payloads of the riffwork.
The truth of the matter is, between Barnett mimicking Vile’s fingerpicking flightiness and Vile imitating Barnett’s laidback chordal quirkiness, it sounds like the artists don’t want to be known for what they do.
Remembering the first time the heart skipped a beat may pose a challenge. But remembering the first time the xx induced my heart to swallow itself whole? Not a damn problem.
The National finds themselves in that same dreamy, melancholic space—but holy hell if the music is qualifiedly defined and easy to spot.
My god, I want to give them the record Close to the Edge just to stir the band’s brain cells. Because they’re on that iron cliff between thrilling and boring progressive rock. They have the magnetic talent to stay on the safe side.
I’s not a vocalist becoming of Kate Bush and Amy Winehouse that’s worth talking about—it’s Tash Sultana with a big fucking guitar that needs a word or two—or 500.
Third Eye Blind is that summer when you met your first relationship. It was awkwardly paced, filled with mistakes and a flameout in the end. But you know they meant every word in the sentence “I love you.” And 20 years on, you still do.