Romantic dinner realizations and terrifying legal anxiety: 2012 ½ way

So it's time again for everyone's half way to the end of the year round up. On my part, I wanted to a write a little about spending money on music aka buying albums. I've been doing it. Yes, that's right. I made a pact around February somewhat randomly to start paying for albums; specifically digital albums.  I used to have a certain moral objection to paying for digital music (we're talking naivete's). Itunes, rhapsody, amazon et al. These multi-million-dollar conglomerates provided lazy people seeking instant gratification ghostly, decaying outlines of an artwork created for physical appreciation, all-the-while, profiting on absentee-packaged middle-school grade rips; the Kindle of music consumption. I guess this same argument could be made against illegal (i.e. not paid for) digital music, but at least, in this case, you're paying what the content is worth (nothing).  [edit - I forgot to mention this:] I guess, just maybe, this moral objection blossomed out of my inability to stay away from these multi-million dollar conglomerates; it's hard to stray from instant gratification.  I often found myself using these huge services, like most people.  I was angry with myself.

My sudden change of heart came about out of both necessity and idealism. SOPA and PIPA did not in fact, as you all know, pass in our Government's grand decision making arena. Like it shouldn't have. But, for those of you who haven't been google-searching “[insert artist/album title here] mediafire” or some other mass-storage website may not have realized, it basically passed. The SOPA/PIPA ordeal coupled with the extremely dramatic takedown of KIM.com's Megaupload empire scared (maybe bullied) these similarly-minded hosting sites into the removal of illegal material. Those of you who have been searching these “mediafire” extensions know quite well that the illegal market has dried up, at least for in the direct-download sector. For the last several months, these types of searches resulted in numerous “this link has been removed by google's blah blah blah”, which meant: shit. Now, there's not even a reminder that they used to be there – they just don't show up.

I'll backtrack here and say that I've never successfully used bitorrent, but God did I want to. I used to like to think that I was relatively computer-savvy, but until my computer died and I started using Linux, I never figured it out. When I finally did figure it out, another force was hindering my illegal music consumption: terror, or anxiety – one of the two. The fact that google was now monitoring it's searches (obviously from their internal removal of prohibited results) scared the shit out of me. Remember when that middle-aged Minnesota woman was fined $1.9 million for downloading 24 songs two-years ago? When google wasn't monitoring their search results, it seemed ok; illegal stuff came up, meaning other people were doing it too. Like, probably at least one-thousand if “PJ Harvey let england shake zip” was the second suggested search result when I started typing in PJ Harvey.... I can take my chances with one in a thousand. But Google removing links? Then they definitely had the power to remove me from all the money I will ever make in my life. So, yeah, necessity.

The other kind of startling truth about all of this is that I had been illegally downloading music for a couple years. The amount was never superfluous – maybe an album or two every couple weeks. I always justified it by saying something like, “I'm going to buy it on vinyl”, or “I don't like really like the band, I just want to measure the hype.” Working at a radio station also helped... But, I would download an album here or there, just to see what it was about. Ultimately, I felt I had no other choice. I was in school, didn't have a job, no money, no record store within walking distance. And with the pure mass of music gaining coverage by our music bibles, what is one to do? Just not get that album? So I did it.

Two things just really hit me a couple months ago. I was at Chipotle for the third time that week, dropping $8 for some tacos, when I realized that I had already spent three times what 1 digital album costs in three days. Fuck dude. What the hell was I doing with my money? I was throwing it (continuously) at of something that kept me satisfied for an hour, all the while stealing music from musicians who put months, sometimes years, into making a piece of artwork that could provide years of satisfaction. Jesus, man. My priorities were fucked. Also, how the fuck could I expect anyone to pay for something that I might/will/am creating when I'm stealing the shit out of it? That's the second thing, but it's not as romantic as the Chipotle realization.

I do, however, think that illegal downloading and the culture of music consumption in general today has a lot to say about the music industry, specifically, musicians and the way in which consumers/appreciators connect with them. Quite frankly, it's the music industry's fault that the majority of music lovers acquire music via quote-unquote illegal sources. Only because the way in which a majority of music-lovers acquire music is still considered illegal. The music corporations (read Warner, EMI, Atlantic, et al) are still trying to gonna party like its 1999. And while the 21^st century has seen the emergence of an entirely rabid breed of young people craving “new” music, these corporations assume their old-guard system will function the same, or rather, needed to function the same; instead of adapting to a new and (begrudgingly) profitable culture of hyper-collecting and digital hoarding, they decided to throw millions at politicians and fuck-over the women of Minnesota!

The solution to the whole music-industry issue is out there. There's money to be made in music, if not entirely because of the fans. If people just hated music today, it'd be a lot easier to understand why the big record companies are struggling like they are. It'd be easier to understand why SOPA was actually an issue and pirates were fined millions: protecting the glory I'm sure these companies once felt they bathed in. But in a culture when no one knows enough, and even people who think they know everything don't know enough, I can't help feeling no pity for these record companies. And it's terrible that the musicians (the letter-writers) signed to these companies are the ones that are ultimately suffering. Or, at least, that's what they'd like you to think. But it's hard to pity the 99million Nicki Minaj or LMFAO are making. For some reason, these one-percenters get a break from criticism, cause they make art.

Really, I think the fact that most people (myself included) find it easier and essentially more satisfying to get a digital album for free in our current state rather than pay for it is startling; this should be the issue labels are looking at. Prohibition doesn't work, so congress and corporations, stop trying to utilize it. Record labels – make it easy for us to pay for your shit. Make it easy to support the musicians you promote. Sadly, that's what hoarders want. If any of us have to go out of our way to buy something, we're not going to if we can go out of our to get it for free. Change your system, you might be surprised.

What triggered my shift from free music acquisition to economic music acquisition, besides the irrationally mounting terror associated with millions of dollars in fines/rape fees (whichever you prefer), was ultimately the promise I saw in several labels. A story I read about Stone Throw's decision to join the extremely progressive drip.fm spurred my interest in actually paying for digital music. I mean, they basically give it to you, like, hand it to you for a convenience charge. I guaranty you people would pay for music if it cost $0 with a $10 shipping and handling fee, which is basically what drip.fm is. From there, I searched around and found other sites that might, at least, offer music I couldn't get on itunes. After my list of half-year favorites, I've listed several websites. Also – I love 2012 so far.

1. Fiona Apple – Idler Wheel
2. Liars – WIXIW
3. Spiritualized – Sweet Heart, Sweet Light
4. Grimes – Visions
5. Burial – Kindred
6. Wolfgang Voigt – EP
7. Earth – Angels of Darkness, Demons of Light II
8. Big Krit – Return to 4eva
9. Julia Holter -Ekstasis
10. Demdike Stare - Elemental

http://boomkat.com/

https://drip.fm/

http://www.4ad.com/releases

http://www.hyperdub.net/

Shackleton Rising

Let's talk about preference. Personal preference to be more precise, and it's impact on opinions. Ok – I guess it's obvious that personal preference is opinions. It's impossible to separate one's own personal preference from the opinions that person develops, and in developing, forming arguments for or against something that, well, requires or does not require an argument. As a singular thought machine, it's not just hard, it's impossible to objectively approach a subject that one cares about. So, I've always taken a fond interest in entities that rely on singular beings to state opinions that are entirely representative of what those entities believe. Just a little observation.

Shackleton has been at this for about as long as Aphex Twin has not, and he's been doing it about as well as anyone. Three years ago, when I first discovered him, he had a label called Skull Disco with an album called Skull Disco. Put yourself in post-Aphex Twin electronic music three years ago land – before dubstep was Dubstep, before Skrillex and Bassnectar (re: brostep) – ultimately go back to Burial's Untrue. Shackleton was making music many people considered dubstep, but that genre label didn't matter. Not one person listening to Burial, Appleblim, Shackleton, Skream, etc. really cared to define what it was. Or if they did, the definition was never solid. We had our own ideas (mine): the simple combination of two terms that seemed to describe the music being made/categorized under the moniker (Dub music and Two-step). I had no idea what Two-step was – probably because it mostly existed in the UK underground – obviously I was over here. But no one really knew what the fuck it was. Dub music, maybe. But I have a feeling the meaning of Dub is different to Americans. Just a hunch.

Dubstep meant nothing except bass and drums. It embodied a certain mystical “new” sound (maybe one of the reasons it caught on so fervently in the last year). Artists like Burial and Shackleton gave it that mysticism; cryptic vocals, atypical dance beats, late-night atmospherics. Shackleton was lumped into this category for a time, until most critics realized he was more of an “uncategorizeable” musician and made that fact know. Now Burial and Shackleton, in my opinion, couldn't be further apart as 2012 electronic music ticks by. Shackleton's sound was, up until Music for the Quiet Hour, quite simply this: tension and release (Bass + rhythm = build + drop). I too will plead unable-to-categorize. What set Shackleton apart from a lot of other bass-musicians who followed this incredibly simple summation of its tendencies was the duration and means he took in accomplishing said drop. His songs always dropped, that was kind of his thing, but the build was always radically different from his peers.

As hard has been to categorize Shackleton, there had always been a formula to his music. Despite the idiosyncratic “musicological” percussion on top, Shackleton, for the most part, stayed true to the simple structure of tension-and-release; build-to-drop. Up until now, no matter what he was doing, this formula stayed consistent. And while Three EP's pushed the limits of what most would consider acceptable lengths of tension, the simple-eternal formula was always there.

Music for the Quiet Hour, however, is startling, foremost in how far Shackleton has strayed from the arguably rigid backbone of dance music. Having followed Shackleton for several years now, my expectations were solidly in place upon first listen – I thought I knew what I was getting myself into. Of course, no help. The first “Hour” (it's really more like 64 minutes, but I won't fault Sam), is a monolithic piece of work – dynamically, timbre-ally, percussionally, intentionally, et al. The piece is split arbitrarily into 5 parts. 5 parts that sometimes play as breath marks, other times as interruptions. Ultimately, it's a demonstration in electronic virtuosity, new computer dynamicity – paired with one very obvious mistake.

Now, I'm going to hypothesize a bit here. A self-conducted interview with the man is a little unattainable at current, so my estimations will have to do. Having followed his releases for several years, I've noticed a certain tenacity for progression within his own work – sort of this rivalry between albums, one after the other, of out-doing, well, the previous one. It seems like Shackleton's been consistently raising his own standard for each record, intentionally trying to out perform himself. For me, this tenacity is audible on Shackleton's most recent work Typically, this kind of rivalry exists between bands or musicians hence it's not always as obvious. But for a guy like Shackleton, who really has no peers, the human need for competition plays as if he's trying to outdo himself. Music for the Quiet Hour, fair to say, is the soundtrack to Shackleton's self-made electronic obstacle course. Often, it's just straight-up the obstacle course. It's the aural representation of Shackleton's attempt at tackling it, the aural-film of Sam climbing a rope, jumping over something, crawling through mud – I don't know, whatever part of this analogy works better for you, throw it in there. Because of this, Hour is not as much a challenge for us as it is for him. It's almost easier to understand the piece through this lense, and in that sense, Music for the Quiet Hour is exhausting.

The challenge for us is understanding where he's going with the whole thing. I would have liked to have had the capacity to approach this monster without expectations, but you know, that doesn't really work. Without expectations (say, the fourth time through), the exhaust isn't there – it's easier. But I found myself, quite literally, closing in on the edge of whatever respective seat I was in, waiting for that fucking drop. It never came – the tension was exhausting. But really, thank you Shackleton for slapping me silly for expecting that shit. Cause really, you're (he's) better than that.

The crowning achievement of the first hour is just that – even if you've never listened to his music – the tension is so effective it's hard not to expect some monster beat or hook to emerge. How this tensions-without-release plays on our view of dance music altogether is wildly out-there and totally commendable. Hour is a vast exploration of computer-based electronica. Some people have described it as a musicological goldmine of textures, timbres, pitches and sound(s) altogether. For the most part I agree. Not that this is something entirely new to Shackleton – I've always marveled at his ostensibly un-preset sound and pattern usage – far removed from the ordinary in electronic-dance. In relation to his previous explorations into sound, Hour has grown immensely. Shedding “the drop” aesthetic throughout the piece frees him from tendencies he once relied on. Part 1 feels like a build, and upon first, listen it is. As I said above, new sounds are at work here. The rhythms are far more organic, a glorious exploration of implying time. Where his previous releases always felt programmed, Part 1 is the first time Shackleton relies on texture above rhythm, working a level above the cinematic build.

Part 2, then, feels like the drop. For a minute it is. But Instead of an all-out dance party somewhere around minute three of Part 2, he shifts the cymbal (4 against 3) and fucks everything up – that's first-time-through-me speaking. The metric modulation here is fascinating, it's a complete break from everything Shackleton. Instead of climaxing via poly-rhythm around minute mark 3:30, he let's the poly-rhythm become the rhythm entirely. Instead of routing the tension created by this rhythmic layering back to the original tempo for that Deadmau5 fist-pumping moment we expect, our fists quite literally detach themselves from their respective appendage(s). The thumb-piano drops out completely as the thin-cymbals usher us in to completely unchartered Shackleton-territory: pure noise. Minute mark 5 is a glorious anti-climax - one of several instances on this record where Shackleton reminds us that he's not in it this time for the jams; he has other intentions.

Crickets chirp over sub-sonic demon-bass in anticipation – I mean even Arvo Part couldn't not do something with this now thirteen minute build. Then 6:10 hits – or 13:45 if you're counting this by the hour. Remember that minute mark, that glorious 13:45 journey into all things technically electronically virtuosic. Actually, you might just want to skip to “(For the) Love of Weeping” right around 13:44 because it is at this precise moment that I (and you will) find out what the build is actually for.

Vengeance Tenfold. That's what it's for. Some quick Internet research says he's some spoken word “artist”. But I'd rather not give this “artist” credit – I hadn't heard of him, I wasn't planning on mentioning his name, had no idea there was any kind of collaboration underway for Shack's new LP, and sure as hell did not expect this. What follows these jubilant thirteen minutes and forty-odd seconds is one of the biggest mistakes I've witnessed on record in a long while. Send in the clowns, Sam. It's a shame that the bulk of my review ends here – points off my unscathed record, I know.

In a recent interview for pitchfork.tv's Call and Respond, God himself (J Spaceman), in describing some of the reasoning behind his mixing techniques, said, “as soon as you put a voice on a record, that's fifty-percent of the space used.” In Spaceman's case, devoting fifty-percent of said space to the voice is necessary – Spiritualized lyrics tend to carry some weight. But I'd argue, in the case of Music for the Quiet Hour, that this guy deserves, at most, five-percent at any given time. When those first 13-minutes of one-hundred-percent Shackleton genius find themselves so rudely interrupted, our entire focus shifts to this guy and what he's saying; we're human. We like human sounding things - so the remaining fifty minutes focus on this entirely. Even when Tenfold isn't talking, we're anticipating what he'll say next.

So back to that whole personal preference thing I was ranting about above: you should still give the rest of this “hour” a chance. You might like it, might understand what it is, what it's trying to accomplish, might think nothing of his voice (like most people). But I absolutely hate this guy, or at least how he sounds in a spoken word context (re: his voice). It's the most unfortunate pairing of two worlds: an entirely organic, spacious, exhilarating world of modern computer-music underneath the most annoying, hyper-extended, over-produced, trying-to-hard-just-because shit. I mean, there's probably a point – and when he finally stops talking, there's kind of this “Oh” moment, like the moment everyone experiences at the end of Blade Runner. But unlike Ridley Scott's masterwork, there's no value in trying to figure out what's going on – even if there is some kind of message this dude is spewing, there's no way the meaning could undo what his egregious presence on top of the beauty does. I mean, at least Blade Runner was visually amazing the first time through, even if I didn't really get it. At least there was something there aesthetically to latch on to amidst the confusion.

It would be misleading to say Tenfold speaks for the rest of the hour because he doesn't. The last third of Part 2 into the majority of Part 3 finds us entirely immersed, again, in Shackleton's domain. But Part 4, which also happens to be the obligatory centerpiece, relies entirely on Tenfold's phantom conversation with another character played by none-other, ending in that “Oh” moment I mentioned above. By the time the hour finishes and we've tried (at length) to discern and make sense of what Tenfold has spewed out, there's no reward. It's startling how quickly one ultra-confused component can effect something that makes so much sense.

I'd also be kidding you if I didn't say this: I do appreciate the effort. Electronic music has a rich history of blending -or- attempting to blend these dualities: the computerized and the living. The irony in all of this is that Music for the Quiet Hour shows us how alive Shackleton's music is. How much he's transcended the mechanized. I'd like to think that this was their sick goal all along. The intention of both Shackleton and Vengeance Tenfold may very well have been to trade roles (Shackleton as alive, Tenfold as totally not). In doing so, Music for the Quiet Hour may function better as an eye-opening critique on the nature of musicians today: technology is far more alive than we are. At the very least, it'd be a little easier to swallow such an egregious mistake if we viewed Vengeance Tenfold as a fucking martyr. 

Photo: Justin Farrar

Foxydigitalis

Destroyer's Kaputt. The Re-Establishment of Fine Caviar -or Who the Fuck Eats Caviar?

Destroyer. Kaputt. My year. Done. This is a response to the misguided praising of an album that deserved far more respect and admiration than it's received to date. This is about Destroyer's 2011 album Kaputt. And I want to start with something almost entirely unrelated.

*(If you prefer to relate, you can skip my life story and continue at the appropriate asterisk.)

Smooth Jazz. A certain part of my soul will forever be branded by its foul existence. I never talk about this, but my parents absolutely love smooth jazz. Throughout my childhood, or more accurately, throughout my entire time in their house, they listened to it constantly. When I was 8, when I was 21. smooth jazz. I mean, my Mom still rocks Dave Koz's Christmas CD every December. Kenny G's rendition of Auld Lang Syne (paired with a patriotic pastiche of memorable American quotes) resonates in the halls every year. So it makes sense, on some level, how the faint remnants of a certain, rather embarrassing musical genre might stick with me. Might brandish my ego. Right? Well, if my concision hasn't convinced you... It makes sense like this:

When you're 8, music doesn't mean anything. Or more precisely: it means the same as everything else. It's something you may or may not take naturally too; it's kind of fun to play, capitalistic enough to buy and straight-up accessible enough to mold to the shape of your life, but it doesn't mean a whole lot. It's the same as everything else. But parents. Parents mean a lot to an eight-year old. We're talking priorities here. I mean, they're old, and mature. They have a lot of money, personal belongings, and the power to take away your personal belongings. They like music that sounds cool and speak in tongues about it - an entire world unexplored. So naturally, parents know what's up when it comes to music. A equals B equals C. This is important logic.

Following this logic, it also makes sense how I would idolize them. 65 GTO's, family gatherings, Kevin Costner, Jesus, etc. Entirely copying them was good enough for my 8 year old self. I took piano lessons like my Mom and tried to play hockey like my Dad. But nothing came close to the idolization surrounding their general abilities in, knowledge of, and taste connected to and with music. I adored the music they listened to. And that musical love was something I straight-up unabashedly copied. To this day I still copy it. Seriously, if Johnny Lang's jeans were easy for an 8 year old to obtain, I would have been that 8 year old. I didn't understand that these elders had (musical) flaws. I didn't have the capacity to question my parents taste in music. Sure, my Mom and Dad had gems in their music collections, but the shit they listened to for fun? Now, all I want to do is vomit down the front of my shirt. Then: that shit was (supposed to be) dope. Peter White was apparently amazing and Basia sang some great songs. That's how it was, plain and simple. I legitimately gave it a shot... and like the several confused and failed years of praise-and-worship = seeing Jesus, I tried. I definitely remember a shit-wrecked encounter with Gato Barbieri's Que Pasa where my head exploded. And I did, as much as I hate to admit it, establish a not-so-ironic love for George Benson's Breezin, but for the most part, while my parents beasted Joe Sample on numerous car rides around the Minneapolis lakes, I looked out the window and thought about how awesome it would become. I envisioned David Sanborn's ostensible hyper-passion the same way I envisioned eating caviar as a grown-up and how awesome that would probably be. I just didn't see it yet: someday, when I'm older, then I'll get it. Then I'll understand it.

Obviously, I never understood it the way I envisioned because people don't eat caviar. My parents stopped being idols and became parents. Naturally, I questioned what was once infallible; music I had so immaturely obsessed over lost its surreal sheen. If music once obsessed over became dull, imagine what musical confusion turned into. Shit dude. I fucking hated smooth jazz. Everything about it. As I developed a love for what my pretentious High-School self thought was “real jazz,” I also developed a love for attempting to define what Smooth Jazz was and what made it so terrible. Seriously, don't even try. I know way too many smooth-jazz artists for the reason of antipathy strictly. I never gave myself a good explanation – no way could I webster that shit. For year's, I turned my nose down at it, mocked my Mom for attending Jeff Lorber's Christmas party, my Dad for utilizing Candy Dulfer as the new-stereo-system test-tone. To my arrogant stuck-up self, Smooth Jazz was terrible, but I didn't have a reason. Any rational attempt at differentiating it from the more traditional 70's and 80's Jazz forms that I respected (Fusion, Jazz-Funk, Jazz-Rock) fell far short of acceptable. I just gave up. I moved to a college where I didn't have to think about it - Smooth Jazz sat on the shelf, completely loathed but entirely undefined by your's truly.

And (*) this is where I turn to Destroyer's amazing release from 2011; Kaputt. An album has never been so aptly named. When it came out, everybody pretty much adored it. It earned the correct scores, ranked in the correct “best-new”s, and wound up on my shit-to-listen-to list, which soon became the only thing on my shit-to-listen-to list. What I realize now is that I had unknowingly stopped actually reading the reviews that put it on that hyphenated list; I was really just browsing to see what was new and what was supposed to be good so I might, in a way, bolster my future. And Kaputt was supposed to be really good. I, again, didn't even realize I had forgotten to read a single thing they had to say about it. I couldn't just let them poke me incessantly for a couple months, like I would have four years ago. Following the true masochistic tendencies of my subconscious, I waited for that punch in the face, as I wandered in unknown solitude, developing my own opinions about Kaputt, while I and it unintentionally destroyed my 2011 (apt pun, I know). For the record, thanks Destroyer. My top 10 is like 9 albums long. And number 9 is really pushing it.

By the end of June, my face realllly hurt. And, just so we're clear, that's not a metaphor for the confidence I hold in my opinions, it's more a metaphor for the sake of metaphors. It's more a metaphor for the feeling of never having been punched in the face before. I'll go into more depth on the actual album later, so bear with the abridged version of my opinions: what I heard as an entirely groundbreaking collection of songs built on true ensemble playing, the kind of instrumental interaction seldom (never) heard in indie rock, a lyricist at the top of his game, and some of the most interesting production of 2011 was called... smooth-jazz. Wait, what? That's when I realized I really hadn't been reading what they were writing. These people just had to go bringing Smooth Jazz and that dreaded definition entirely back into my life. Big-Time. WTF everyone? No way could I hold onto the notions and ideas I developed (in solitude) about Kaputt when every single critic was ranting about it and not feel betrayed. Not just ranting about it; belittling the shit out of it. No way could I ignore the general consensus, ignore the sheer majority of music critics, the metropolis they populate. This was all cited as Smooth Jazz by the metropolis. Bah! Smooth Jazz? Soft-rock? Sade? What?? The general consensus also revealed something rather astonishing. Something I've been feeling for a couple years now but never had any real evidence to prove my gut right.

These critics, in what I came to see as an exercise in sheer efficiency, exiled Destroyer's “sound” to the smooth/soft dungeons of distaste. How quickly could one really tag Kaputt as kitsch, you ask? Well, I've taken the liberty of compiling a best-of list – a sort of competition, as it were.

1. The simply-named Scott from No Genre, last paragraph. “The appropriation of smooth jazz/soft rock kitsch isn’t funny or inventive or postmodern; it’s depressing.”
2. Matthew Fiander of Popmatters, a little earlier than Scott. “At its base...a soft-rock album... right down to the quasi-smoky sax fills and airy drumming.”
3. Ben Rateliff of the Times, late 2nd paragraph. “Basically it’s Mr. Bejar’s late-70s-and-early-80s ambient and new-romantic tag-sale blowout, swathed in cheesy electronic drums with strokes of flute and trumpet and purely decorative tenor saxophone.”
4. Ryan Dombal, in Pitchfork's yearly round-up-blurb, second paragraph: “ The languid music constantly flirts with bad taste stalwarts like lite jazz and soft rock.”
5. Dombol's brethren, Mark Richardson, in his full review from early 2011, first paragraph. “The production and arrangements evoke a narrow window of time-- sometime between, say, 1977 and 1984, or between Chuck Mangione's "Feels So Good" and Sade's Diamond Life with stops along the way for Roxy Music's Avalon and Steely Dan's Gaucho. It slides between soft rock, smooth jazz, and new romantic pop.”
6. Ed Comental, for Tiny Mix Tapes, third sentence: “Daniel Bejar here indulges in some of the most poorly regarded pop genres of all time: smooth jazz, new age ambient, easy listening, and white disco.”
7. Third-place, AllMusic's Kristopher Monger, second sentence . “Kaputt is fully committed to its cause, wrapping everything up in a pristine, immaculately produced biosphere that’s filled to the brim with twinkling synths, soft rock drums, and enough wailing trumpets and saxophones to out-mellow Kenny G, David Sanborn, and Dave Koz combined.”
8. Technically, the runner-up is really the winner, as he uttered this before anything else. Keelan H of Sputnikmusic, first sentence. “Smooth jazz, soft-rock disco, and 80’s new wave are volatile genres to be playing with if you’re Dan Bejar (or, anybody for that matter). If you were to poll the average Destroyer fan regarding their favourite genres, these three wouldn’t exactly be popular choices.”
9. Laura Snapes' review for NME, also first sentence. “To anyone who experienced Hall & Oates’ ’80s reign, pastel horns, louche bass and reverb signify the decade’s worst excesses; to us, their cheesiness is as mysterious as finding flamingo slacks covered in suspect stains in your parents’ attic.” If not for anything other than Bejar's lyric (Melodymaker, NME, allsoundslikeadreamtome), that takes the cake.

Compiling this startling collection of quotes was by no means difficult; every single review likens Destroyer's sound on Kaputt to a smooth-jazz/soft-rock aesthetic defined by the bands who were actually associated with that it when they were thriving, coupled with a colorful index of arbitrary adjectives (re: slinky, smooth, lite (sic), cheesy, smoky, easy, romantic, et al.) Simply search google for “Destroyer Kaputt saxophone.” Every single reference to the instrument is paired with one the adjectives listed. I'm not kidding: “Dreamy saxophone solos.” “Supple and buttery.” “Soft-driven saxophone.” “Cheesy saxophones solos.” “Buttery-sax-segueing-easily-into--makeout-inducing-smooth-jazz vibe.” “The sax solos alone will be enough to send many people screaming.” I mean, seriously - those were from the first page. Kinda sounds like the metropolis had a town meeting and agreed on some things. They also agreed to just kind of forget about some differences. Ok, they really forgot about some differences.

Popular music criticism used to be so ruthless in regards to minute discrepancies. So closely associated with the ability to boil down a band's sound into two-words-by-making-up-two-words (shit-gaze, chillwave, post-metal, post-dubstep etc.) for the sake of showing, like it or not, how different two syllables/phrases/songs/albums/artists etc. were. And it was effective. But then Kaputt hit. And they kind of forgot that smooth-jazz and soft-rock were different. Two massive genres, each with its own respective college-library of material, became synonymous. I mean, sure, to the average person, they're the same. And to the average person, they're whatever. And pitchfork's never enjoyed showing the average person how stupid they are. And Criticism's about stating the obvious and being obsolete. Right.

What Destroyer really did was take an inventory of sorts. They released an enigmatic masterpiece, an era-defining piece of art, and asked the critics to authenticate it. To listen, criticize, analyze, reference, et al. Ya know, do what critics do. Just set the loop and then go wild. What this inventory of today's collective critical analysis and authentication of popular-music revealed is the scary reality that the popular-music criticism of today is boring – not just monotonous and bland, but unimportant. It's transformed into its shamed conservative anti-radical sibling. Journalism. Turns out, the employees have been jackin merch unnoticed for a couple years. Robbing the company (ok, I'm done with this analogy) tradition of its most effective weapon: Name-Dropping.

As of right now, I haven't exactly figured out how to display infinite posts/lines per page.  If you've gotten this far, the story/article/essay continues on the next page. Click "Older Posts" to keep reading, if you like.