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.
You gotta convince the fools in the pit that...you fell asleep with that thing, your thing, an instrument, your instrument across your chest or under your head, passed out after exploring it with the curiosity of a serial cave diver.
“Kiss me” read red lips, flashing across the cover. Like a dare that won’t stop there, they repeat: Three times. Three strikes. Three bullets
How could you be so real, TV Girl, yet so close to Venice Beach and Malibu and Palm Springs?
UMO is kinda like a lo-fi prince. And I’m talking the gigolo of funk, the true king of the Eighties prince: capital-P Prince.
Just how visceral is rock ‘n’ roll meant to be?
When the music talks, the body responds.