- Coconut Tongues, W. Frank Yesnow.
- Burn, Muff.
- 鸭的愚蠢是巨大的, Juk-Deng #1 Horse.
- The Man Can’t Jail Dese Nuts, Lickyboomboom (Feat. Baseball Glove Face).
- The Sky Fears No Harpoon, Machochachi.
- Cantinflas Didn’t Kill Himself, Sweet Uncle Stan & The Jump-High Gang.
- Macha/Mochi, ciTyFLuid.
- Dipping Sauce For My Titties, Princess Anal (Feat. DJ Liberace’s Lasagna Recipe).
- Part 3, Volume 2, Turgid Thurgood.
- Sink-pissin’, Lil Stank.
- Globbawobbadoobleday, Yobbalob Globbawobbadoobleday.
- Arf (Not Arf), Dogs Who Went To Art School.
- Submarine Seamen, Ólaf Ólafsson & All His Sons.
- Spider Ballads, Tammy Christ.
- Throw Hands With My Pussy, Jennifer Annnnnnnnnnn Asstronaut.
- iRreSistibLE, wOw X wOw.
- Requiem For Pepys, Montgomery Yiff & the Buffalo Symphony.
- Covid’s Metamorphosis, Maia Maliaia.
- Live Bullet, Bob Seger & The Silver Bullet Band.
- Circular Bridges, Ben and Jeannie Alfredo.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: pitchfork (Page 1 of 2)
The Rabbis – Nuclear (Pronounced “Nuke-yuh-ler”)
The second full-length album from these Pahrump, NV, art-punk triplets sees the music taking a new direction and dealing with the loss of the most talented triplet, Lamprey. Themes such as loss, grief, and being the second-or-third-most-talented triplet imbue the album with a poignancy that is only slightly tempered by the zither solos. (Every song features a zither solo, except for Zither Solo, which is entirely a zither solo.)
Ivan Denisovich – A Day In The Life
Gender-fluid, never seen without several shoe boxes duct-taped to zir head, and unwilling to tell anyone where ze is from, Ivan Denisovich’s soulful pop sounds like chamber music played by sentient pumpkins the week after Halloween. From epic ballads such as Hallway Party to bouncy numbers like Face Like A Gas Station, A Day In The Life never fails to surprise.
Rimmington Steale – Go Wash Up
Atlanta-based trap-hop producer Mike Starling’s third mixtape under the Rimmington Steale name explores the mysteries and whorling fractacality that is eating ass. Songs like Tastes Like Buttered Popcorn, ‘Til My Neck Breaks, Don’t Forget The Balls, and Back In The Shower, Stanky Bitch are like puzzle boxes made out of anuses.
Gladio Gorman – Estonia
In 2011, Gladio Gorman set himself a remarkable goal: record an album about each of the world’s 203 countries. Estonia, the 94th of the series, features Gorman’s trademark sound of a poorly-mic’ed acoustic guitar and whispered, intimate lyrics that captivate and educate, as 90% of them were sampled directly from Wikipedia’s entry on Estonia.
Lil Corpse – Dead By 19
South Florida Soundcloud rapper Lil Corpse achieved almost instant fame with his debut, and posthumous, release Dead By 19. Thick, distorted beats that remind you of music made by someone who didn’t know what they were doing and lyrics such as “Drugs, drugs, drugs, drugs, drugs, yes. Drugs, yes. Bish.” brought teenagers and New York Times critic Jon Caramanca running to his shows, all of which have been cancelled since his death. He will live on through such songs as Taking Pills Without Asking What They Are, Face Tattoo, and Why Aren’t Any Of The Adults In My Life Helping Me? Rest in Power, Lil Corpse.
Fuck the Sixties. Overrated decade. Not a first round draft choice: the Sixties are the Ryan Leaf of decades. 1890’s blows away it away 1620’s? Now there’s a decade. As far as the past little bit of history goes, the Sixties are inarguably better than the Thirties or Forties; concentration camps were being built in the former decade, and employed in the latter. The Sixties saw no genocides, and I therefore must award it points on that front.
Seriously: no genocides in the 1960’s. I was sure I was going to find something horrific on the Wikipedia page, but I was pleasantly surprised by humanity.
Excuse me. The Great Leap Forward ring any bells?
That doesn’t count as a genocide.
Why not? 45 million people died.
Do not interfere in China’s internal affairs, running dog.
Wow.
Besides, 45 million people sounds like a lot until you realize it’s China. 45 million people is, like, a mid-sized city. Their version of Cincinnati has 45 million people in it.
I repeat: wow.
And: don’t blame the Great Leap Forward. On paper, it was a great plan.
Why is it that everything Communists do only works on paper? And, no, the Great Leap Forward was not a great plan on paper. That drug-addled madman forced everyone in the country to move onto kibbutzes.
I don’t think they called them that.
You know what I mean. How about the backyard furnaces?
That was not Mao’s best idea.
No. Turns out farmers working in their sheds can’t produce commercial-grade steel. Ooh, ooh: how about the famines?
There may or may not have been a famine or two, but let’s not play the blame game.
We can place blame. When you plant an entire nation’s worth of food according to the ravings of Lysenko, then it is your fault when everyone starves to death that winter.
Lysenko’s theories worked on paper.
STOP SAYING THAT.
…
What the hell was I talking about?
The Sixties.
Oh, yeah. Pitchfork made another list. Best EVAR shmecord almubs of the SIxties and frank bank mank burble.
You having a stroke?
Faking one to get out of looking at another list.
No one’s making you do this, man.
The muse is.
I hate you. Do the list.
Fine, but I’m doing it in bullet points.
No one cares.
- Right up front: the great Jesse Jarnow contributed to this Best EVAR and, you know, I’m not talking about him.
- Or any of the other writers.
- Okay, one of them.
- I’m not saying which one.
- I haven’t heard of half of this shit; I have no idea what a Peter Brötzmann Octet is, and I’m not about to find out.
- …
- Well, now I’m curious.
- OH GOD NO.
- It’s like the part in Space that gets real noisey, but for eight minutes.
- This is Best EVAR material?
- Goddammit, Pirchfork, you’ve made it personal again.
- Every time I think I’m out, they pull me back in.
- Foreigners all have their own music, which is fine by me, but some foreigners’ music is just too damn foreign.
- Looking at you, India.
- Why can’t you be like Senegal, India?
- Senegal is foreign as shit, but their music is not.
- You, India, are also foreign as shit, and your music even moreso.
- That doesn’t make me racist, India; it makes you rude.
- (Not talking about the Bollywood stuff. The traditional sound. I feel the same way about microtones as I do about microdosing: if you must, you must, but I don’t need to hear about it.)
- If Alexander “Skip” Spence and the 13th Floor Elevators weren’t included on this list, Pitchfork would have been evicted from their offices.
- That was in Rolling Stone and Creem’s leases, as well.
- Boilerplate rental agreement in the Important Rock Critic business.
- So, so, so much jazz.
- My life got a lot better once I stopped trying to get into jazz.
- Phases TotD never went through:
- Reggae.
- That is all.
- Are we in private, Enthusiasts?
- Do we speak quietly and just to each other?
NERVOUS LOOKING AROUND NOISE
- Never cared for Bob Marley.
- Interesting dude, but the music just does one thing over and over and over.
- Aw, shit, The Doors.
- Eat my ass, The Doors.
- I hope someone hacks your phones and shows the world your dick pics, The Doors.
- Your thin and wheezy mediocrity requires a transtemporal shaming.
- Ooh, look: Stockhausen.
- Someone tell Phil.
- Live/Dead is number 60, which is utter bullshit: Live/Dead is the 52nd best album of the Sixties.
- That’s common fucking knowledge, Pitchfork.
- Everybody needs to get their shit together.
- From 50 on, it’s mostly the Velvet Underground; I think they made up a couple albums.
Was there a point to all this?
Only if we emancipate our minds, seek truth from facts, proceed from reality in everything and integrate theory with practice, can we carry out our socialist modernization program smoothly.
Always a pleasure.
Strap on your eye goggles, Enthusiasts!
Eye goggles are just called goggles.
I was kind of quoting the Beastie Boys.
RIP Jam Master Jay. Still: makes no sense.
The Enthusiasts expect a certain level of playfulness when it comes to the English language.
Irregardless.
I see what you did. Anyway, as I was saying before I so rudely interrupted myself, it’s time for everyone’s favorite semi-regular feature: TotD Has Too Many Tabs Open. As always, Ive been meaning to write about all of this bullshit, but haven’t found the time. Cuz, you know, I’m so busy.
Let’s start with Trixie Garcia’s touching and honest article from Lenny, which is run by Lena Dunham, whom I am aware of only through other people’s mockery of her. Trixie talks about coming to terms with all the nonsense that comes from being her father’s daughter, and–in very sweet language–begs Deadheads to stop hugging her and telling her secrets.
(What do you think the daily over/under is on “white guys in tie-dye staring deeply into Trixie’s eyes while telling her that her father was John the Baptist” is? I’d set the line at three.)
And if I had any doubts that Trixie and I were meant to be together, she also writes this:
In high school, Grateful Dead music was probably the least cool thing you could be into, as far as I was concerned. I remember giving Jerry a hard time for the clothes he was wearing. This was when rock stars were supposed to be glamorous … think David Lee Roth. [Emphasis mine.] I was so disappointed that my dad wasn’t the cool kind of dancing, spandex-clad rock star and instead wore corduroy pants with orthopedic shoes. I wouldn’t even call him a rock star at that time, maybe “cult leader in absentia.” He must have thought my whining was hilarious, but I was dead serious.
I just admire how her mind works is all.
This is Noura Mint Seymali, and she is from Mauritania.
The guitarist is out of tune, but he’s out of tune in the right way.
The top comment on YouTube is shockingly informative and well-spelled and does not contain any racial slurs or “FALLOUT BROUGHT ME HERE.” Apparently, Noura is singing nationalistic songs about Mauritania, and this is bullshit, man. These songs are far better than God Bless America or America the Beautiful or whatnot. There is an enormous Nationalistic Song Gap developing between us and Mauritania, and I hope Jared Kushner does something about it.
The Hal Saflieni Hypogeum is one of the oldest preserved human structures on the planet, or elsewhere. 4,000 years before Christ, the inhabitants of Malta, who were called the Gozo, built it. The Hypogeum is carved into the soft rock of a cave complex, and contains a temple and a cemetery and a funeral hall. Life, death, and that little bit in between where everyone looks at you and cries.
Worship came first. Before God, there was worship. Before the gods, there was worship.
And while you’re in Malta, you can visit the set of the 1980 film, Popeye, which starred Shelley Duvall.
After you’re done listening to Mauritanian boogie, check out this interview that Amir Bar-Lev gave to ReCode’s Peter Kafka, in which he (quite correctly) declares that TotD is pretty much the only one carrying on the Dead’s legacy at this point, and I am a great person and a super-genius.
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Last but not least, Pitchfork did a compilation article about the Dead’s greatest live cuts; it’s 90% on point, but–like every one of these lists–it ignores 1975, which featured two of the best Dead shows EVAR. Go read it, it’s wonderful: the great Jesse Jarnow edited it, and everyone writing about the Dead nowadays contributed. Everyone you could ever think of who’s carrying on the Dead’s legacy. Yup, everyone.
They won, though. We–well, I–have been hornswoggled, Enthusiasts; we have stuck our dicks in a pig in a poke. To make a list of the sort Pitchfork did is in essence an act of trollery; its success lies in getting dummies (like me) angry enough to engage with the damned thing, and by that metric, the piece did well.
It should be noted at this point that several of the authors of this list are FoTotD’s, and none of my ire is directed at them or their prose, which was taut and snappy. They bear no responsibility for this horror, much like Erwin Rommel–
NO!
–was the good–
DON’T! STOP IT. Do not compare people to Nazis.
I’m using the Rommel Exception.
There is no Rommel Exception. That’s not a thing just because you capitalize it. Don’t compare anyone to Nazis, even the good ones.
Cannot disagree more with you on this: I would kill to be likened to Rommel.
You’re a sociopath. Don’t compare people to Nazis.
May I continue?
It depends. Will the Nazi-comparing continue?
No.
What was the plan?
List of lists about the Grateful Dead.
Oh, right: this site is about the Dead.
And it’s meta. List about lists.
You love meta.
Easier than coming up with a logical throughline.
Totes. Okay, champ: do your skitch.
Danke. In honor of Pitchfork’s Top 200 of the 70’s list–and all the others like it–TotD now presents Grateful Dead-Related Lists I Won’t Be Compiling Or Reading:
- Top 500 Dicks Billy’s Punched. (Lot of big names: Lyle Alzado, Bronson Pinchot, Mark-Linn Baker, etc.)
- 50 Meanest Things Phil Said To Vince.
- Top 221 Times Garcia Whiffed The Lyrics To Franklin’s.
- Top 519 Times Bobby Pooched The Lyrics To Truckin’.
- 100 Best Rando Beatings.
- 200 Most Expensive Times Mickey Began Referring To Himself As Lobsterface And Rampaged Through A Sporting Goods Store.
- 500 Best Tuggers I’ve Ever Gotten, written by the Grateful Dead you are assuming wrote it.
- Garcia’s Solos, Ranked.
- Bobby’s Shirts, Ranked.
- Skank, Ranked.
- Top 200 Times The Van Left For The Airport Without Brent.
- Top 1000 Words In Grateful Dead Songs. (“River” scores highly at number 8, while “plantain” did not make the list at all; nor did “viscera” or “plebiscite.”)
- 100 Best Jams (Without Any LInks).
Why are you fat-shaming Rosie, Pitchfork? Yes, there’s a whole lotta her–42-39-56, to be exact–but it’s rather regressive and problematic of you to not practice HAAS (Humping At Any Size). Maybe if Rosie slimmed down enough to fit into skinny jeans, right?
I stand with Rosie, Pitchfork. I stand with all the Rosies because y’know what, Pitchfork? Rosie’s a good time. Rosie wants the job, and she’ll put in the work. Rosie’s good at stuff that skinny chicks haven’t even heard of. Rosie’s up for it; Rosie’s down; Rosie a gamer. She’ll play hurt, and make her coach proud. Team Rosie.
Also, Marvin Gaye is on the list several times, and he doesn’t have any songs at all with titanic guitar riffs that get answered by stadia full of teenagers screaming the guitarist’s name back at him. (Marvin Gaye’s fine. Y’know? He’s great, whatever, good for him. Let’s just say that he was very lucky to get shot when he did. Made all of his songs much better.)
It is now personal, Enthusiasts. For the past day, I’ve been reading and re-reading Pitchfork’s lie of a joke of a farce of a scam of a clickbait of a list; something tickled at the butthole of my mind. I was missing something that they had missed. Which overlooked category had I overlooked?
It wasn’t Prog Rock: there is almost none, which is odd. Prog Rock has made a small resurgence among Pitchforkers and the Urban Bearded lately, although Prog is always making a small resurgence Prog Rock’s popularity is like the advent of flying cars: perpetually on the horizon. There’s no early Genesis or any of the 70’s-era King Crimson lineups or even Gentle Giant, so there’s no hope for Gong or Magma. Plus, there’s no Yes, so Vincent Gallo is so mad at Pitchfork right now. You wouldn’t like Vincent Gallo when he’s angry, or when he’s happy, or ever.
There is little-to-no choogle. The Dead gets a token reference, and though some have argued that Friend of the Devil was not the correct pick, I have a differing opinion. I think FOTD might still be sung around fires fifty years from now, and to fussing babies a century in the future. It’s a songy song that’s good to sing, and should be sung. So, I’m okay with Friend of the Devil, but there is no Creedence; I recommend criminal charges be filed against all of Pitchfork’s employees for this transgression.
As I mentioned, there is very little in the way of Butt Rock. Butt Rock gets no love in Brooklyn because the wrong people enjoyed it, and also because a great deal of it is dumb as shit. Regardless: if you sold out arenas and opened for KISS in the 70’s, you were not allowed to be on Pitchfork’s list. Obviously, you were also not on the list if you were KISS. (Even though Detroit Rock City and Hard Luck Woman are provable masterpieces of Butt Rock song craftsmanship.)
At this point, I need to ask Pitchfork to pull up a chair, and I’m going to sit opposite Pitchfork, but with my chair turned around and my arms draped casually across the back.
“Pitchfork? Hey, buddy. How are ya? How’s school? That’s great.
“Y’know, champ: it was a great effort you made with the country songs you chose. No Crystal Gayle or Kenny Rogers, but that’s okay. That’s okay.
“But you left off Willie, buddy. Willie Nelson. The Red-Headed Stranger?
…
“So, yeah: I have to punish you for this. Run outside and fetch the chainsaw.”
Many locales and scenes are drastically underserved in favor of what some* are calling “obscure foreign bullshit.” New Orleans is barely heard from, and Los Angeles is treated like a pilled-up stripper working the afternoon shift at Jumbo’s Clown Room, and Canada may as well not exist, and one other place.
Australia.
You motherfuckers forgot AC/DC.
More like Bitchfork.
You showed them.
You see how I saved up my big insult for the end?
Proud of you, slugger. You told the list what’s what.
Pitchfork is racist against Australians.
Australian is not a race.
It is racist to point out that things are not races.
Sure.
*Me.
How do you put The Germs, who were terrible, on the list and not the The Runaways, who were awesome? Y’know what, Pitchfork? You can disrespect Elvis, but when you insult Lita Ford, then you’ve made an enemy of TotD. 1976 from the Sunset Strip.
Why should 30 Days in the Hole by Humble Pie have been included in Pitchfork’s absurd and illegitimate list that was rigged by a crooked media that is very unfair to me, and also very unfair to major-label British rock acts?
- “Improvised” soulful vocal asides.
- It’s about drugs, which are awesome.
- But it’s also about The Man, who is such a dick.
- There are maracas.
- Steve Marriott’s voice.
- Steve Marriott’s guitar, which is a Les Paul, and sounds more Les Pauly than any other Les Paul ever recorded.
- If you close your eyes, you’re in a Trans Am on Route 77, and the cops just appeared in your rearview and lit you up,
- Corry from Lost Live Dead recommends it, and he usually knows what he’s talking about.
- The hole mentioned in the title is not an actual one, instead a metaphor, and thus can be used to teach children about analogies.
- You should just play this for children regardless of the lessons.
- “What is this, Dad?”
- “This, son? This is MOTHERFUCKING ROCK AND ROLL. Used to blast this shit and stick it in your mom out by the old dam.”
- “You’re scaring me, Dad.”
- “Here’s ten bucks. Go to the store and buy Daddy some smokes.”
- “They don’t let you do that any more.”
- And so on.
Enthusiasts, I now know how the terrorists who shot up the Charlie Hebdo offices felt.
DUDE!
What?
Too much, too soon.
Did I overstate my case?
Yes.
But you don’t know what I was talking about.
It doesn’t matter. There is no subject about which that sentiment is permissible.
You don’t understand: I disagree with Rock Nerds. Someone gotta die.
They don’t. All entertainment-based BEST EVAR lists are pointless wastes of time. Nick Hornby wrote a book about it.
But there’s so much left out! There’s no Butt Rock, Goon Rock, Cousin Rock, Fingerbang Rock; so little of the list has the right hair. I mean: Todd Rundgren’s on the list.
Ew.
Right?
Yeah, still: simmer down. It’s not something to get mad about, and I’m sure that the list can’t be that bad.
There’s no Rush.
…
…
…
Excuse me?
No Rush.
Not even La Villa?
Nope.
The 2112 Suite?
Nuh-uh.
The 2112 Suite is maybe the only truly perfect Prog Rock album side.
I do not disagree. Pitchfork does, however.
…
What about Slade?
Slade? Cmon. The Stones are barely on the thing.
NWOBHM?
The New Wave of British Heavy Metal? No way. This is Pitchfork, not NME.
How many Fela songs?
One.
Does it seem like it was chosen at random?
Oh, yeah.
…
We’ve discussed the fact that Elvis was snubbed?
We have.
…
…
…
I’ve thought about it: you may be angry at this list.
YAAY!
Play another song better than anything on that dopey list.
How about Ellen Foley and Mick Ronson covering the Stones from 1979?
Oh, God, yes.
Ellen Foley gives us hope.
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