There is no riddle as to why Warpaint—a good band—has made more clunky records together than not.
You may be asking why the hell it took all the way until February to sort this one out. Well, the same reason the Oscars, the Grammies or the Super Bowl need take place in February: "just 'cuz."
Warpaint too is paradoxical; the perception that their punk-sound would involve appropriations of downtrodden machismo and backlogged confidence bursting out of the inseams of a dreg’s pants, is antiquated.
In the past year, I’ve caught an increasing amount of concerts—20, in fact. A decent count, but it neither gives me any right brag, nor any excuse not to have earplugs. The sum isn’t off the wall amazing, but it is a roughly 2000% increase of my concerts-per-annum rate naught but four years ago. In 2015, I went to only one live event, Oregon Country Fair. And in hindsight I should have bought earplugs then. Because now, I could swear …
If there was a long-game to be played on this record, this was it—toying with a Miles Davis line of seemingly nonsensical sonic experimentation until finding that miracle place of otherworldly sound and space.
This time there was no faffing about—I wrote my fiveish questions down in my catch-all journal during the lead-up to DIIV and Ariel Pink—wholly intent on clamming out some answers from DIIV and ignoring the fact that Ariel Pink was even going to be there.
Darrell Scott may wax his lap steel guitar to its most opaque or Byron House may whack his bass guitar into didgeridoo-type drones or Marco Giovino inhabits each cut with on-beat percussion or Patty Griffin and Bekkah Bramlett may sing like spectres on the end of Plant’s lower register or Buddy Miller may manage to wrap it all into nice package with a cute li’l bow n’ all, it still sounds like this is the re-reburnishing of a car marque …