Everything else may have gone wrong, but at least Bombay Bicycle Club’s first release in several years has gone totally right.
Yes, this header is the best that I could do. No, that should stop you neither from reading the review nor listening to the record.
If there is a dad joke, and I can get away with making the dad joke, I will always, always, always make the dad joke, even dad jokes about Free Nationals albums.
If you put a set of explosives in the water and a massive tidal wave formed, you would get…a really bad joke. Also, this album kicks ass.
A new Juliana Hatfield album, following the other new Juliana Hatfield album, except *this* Juliana Hatfield album is The Police.
Last week, for The A.V. Club‘s weekly A-Sides feature, I had the good luck of writing about the new FKA twigs album, Magdalene, essentially her way of working through her breakup with Robert Pattinson, which I know little about*, other than it resulted in a really great album by an incredibly talented artist. I also know that I’m …
In which Andy makes the pickiest of nits about an otherwise rock solid album about how much it sucks to have your heart broken when you’re the big brain type and you know that people leave but memories remain.
No Welsh? No problem!
The odd case where I feel like I am, by own disappointment, disappointing the people whose art I’m critiquing.
What do you do when the tide creeps in and washes away your sand castle? Make another one. Then make an album with your sibling about growing up on the Isle of Man.
Instead of gazing at one’s shoes, one should gaze at their personal past. That’s a way better source of songwriting inspiration.
It’s a deer! On a beach! Only in Michigan, I’m telling you.
I don’t know what I can say about this record that I don’t already say in the kicker to my review, but gosh I guess I’ll try.
Well, as long as the reruns are erotic, then I don’t mind if I do.
A portal back in time to when Oh Sees were Thee Oh Sees and they hadn’t released quite as many albums as they have to date.
Roll down the windows and throw the goat as you careen down highways blaring the new album from Black Mountain. (But don’t throw the goat out the window. You might lose a hand. Safety first.)
Put away your soaps and bath bombs and shampoos and other scented sudsy sundries, this is a music review, not a tutorial for custom at-home spa treatments, good lord.
What do you do when a band you’ve followed for years makes a new album and it’s…kind of bland?
Not a steak, nor a relative of Carol Burnett, but rather an album whose thesis essentially is that the world sucks, life sucks, people suck, but don’t worry, we’re all going to die someday or something.
An album whose title belies the somewhat not-very-modern style of the band. But in a good way!