Lemme tell ya: nobody does revolution like the French.
Kurt Vile, a vinyl-pressed halo, what a dude, what a goober, he’s a street angel, probably spent his early day hustling the corners, scouting for the best street angles.
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.
There's a similar sentiment every time I put Patterns on as Fowler's voice picks up on "For Me," while singing the penultimate verse: she's right, like all good old friends are.