The days were getting longer, and it was time to say goodbye to the endless winter and get in the mood to disappear for a little while. We stayed up all night in Paris, talking in a closed courtyard. We drove through the streets of Brooklyn, listening to The Way I Feel, the light golden all around us with brief magic and future memories. A worldwide experience lifestyle is when you suddenly forget what space is like, and time, instead of being horizontal, is vertical. The Way I Feel is light like a feather, deep like an ocean. You just need this year’s calendar, dear. Watching vapour trails, losing track of time, the sun going down and up again. After all, the real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.
“The Way I Feel” is taken from the forthcoming EP out April 29 on Acéphale
Wading through the tall grass with the sun high above my head, burning on the back of my neck. Excited to get back home and pick the prickly things out of my socks, to pour a glass of water and lay on my bed. Dan Casey who sometimes makes music by the name of Yalls often paints a picture that reminds me of being stuck in my youth. A time when I’m hoping for the beginning of summer and nothing else. When the walls between city and countryside collapse. Get lost in the premiere for the track ‘DC’ and call me later if you wanna nap in the sun.
Overstimulation has left our bodies vacant. My arms twirl to no set tempo, your eyes glaze over, head lurching to the rush of letting go. The beat shifts from limb to limb, dragging us through the motions like marionettes. Gasoline etches canyons in the folds of our brains, our clouded thoughts beg to be set ablaze. The words pulsing from the speakers above are all that hold our touch at bay. A needed reminder that there’s no real rush – let’s catch our breath, let’s take it slow.
If your dreams find you lost in an anxious mass of limbs, passing through midnight doors and reaching for sleek monoliths, tonight is a gift. In the night sky of our cities, the words you don’t remember gather like clouds, and they condense into dreams before morning. Halfway through the night you look up and there they are again: echoes from the high towers, all wounds explained, all knives bandaged, all empires arrested, all castles unbuilt, all hearts unbroken. You think of your bones as wood, something slow and put here a long time ago. You think of tonight, and the people whose love remains what they are even if their faces fall apart.
We’re teaming up with our BFF Gorilla vs. Bear once again for our SXSW showcase this Thursday, March 13 at the Hype Hotel.
This isn’t a down-home porch song. This isn’t one for the old dusty trail. No, this song is an accusation, an indictment, and every time I hear it I feel myself squinting in the light of a single, harsh bulb, Scout’s moan and the lurching, queasy guitar just inches from my ear. They’re holding me captive; I can’t tune them out.
Scout has assembled her evidence, her case against this man, and she presents it slowly, unrushed. She wants him to hear every word, feel every blow. Even when she hides her snarl behind a mask of defeat, singing in a deceptively calm voice “I figured you went to find your first lover…are her bed sheets as white as they used to be?” her fury is undiminished.
But can she really quit him, this man who has abandoned her and her child? Scout claims that all she wants is that “every now and then you look towards home and remember what you lost,” but no, she doesn’t want to be without him. And somehow the thing that she misses the most, that she needs the most, is his voice.
Scout’s own warble is captivating, bitterness and disappointment, affection and electrified passion all hidden within each other. So why is it his that she puts faith in? Why does she need him to guide her? This is the mystery of the song, the question Scout is asking her lover, asking her listener and asking herself. A question unanswered.
“A Man’s Love is the Hardest Thing to Keep” appears on Songs for the Donors, a collection of demos and cassette recordings released to raise money for Sterling Sisters’ eminent Midwest tour. Listen below.
Letters by Max Savage.
Running body first into the waist high grass, hands outspread eagerly looking for the specks of light twirling in the distance. Summer is still on its way but finally daylight savings has come into action; here await the long bright evenings, beautiful sunsets, and beers & cigarettes on the porch. And just like the beautiful skies we’ve been waiting for, San Diego native, Nick Leng (a producer we’ve kept our eye on for quite a minute) comes through in the clutch and provides the perfect soundtrack for all of our springtime hopes and dreams. Like a firefly caught in a jar waiting to be released, the track is stunning from the get go, and slowly builds to a fluttering and magnificent chorus. Leng shows a true knack for writing songs with pop sensibilities, all the while staying true to his more ambient beat-centric roots.
Get excited for much more to come from the burgeoning producer.
Making lyrics like “Big face hundreds, bout to throw it at her asscheeks” ethereal and calming, Gainsville, FL producer Mike Feinberg aka Kodak to Graph pulls a hat trick of his own with his rework of Travis Porter and Gucci Mane’s “Do a Trick.”
Wiping the track’s southern grit sound clean with airy pieces of vocal coo’s and an array of hollow synths, Feinberg morphs you into a purple glazed cloud, while still keeping the nostalgia factor (and love for the original track) in tact. It’s my party, I turn up if I want to.
Find his tour dates after the jump.
“God’s Whisper” is the first single from 17-year-old Atlanta newcomer Raury’s upcoming debut EP, Indigo Child. Bursting with energy and youthful defiance, it’s a lively dose of feral pop with rousing chants and handclaps. It makes me wish I was a monster from Spike Jonze’s Wild Things so I could run through a forest, ripping branches off of giant trees and throwing them at my friends. The 10-track EP, which derives its name from a new age belief in children who posses special and unusual abilities, drops later this year.
It was close to here I think where I lit a cigarette walking home, late at night, and talked to you about how the way we used to love is half-remembered, just below the liminal. The whispered, the glimmered. But, I said, it’s still in our reach. And you just smiled and said we would have dreamed different. Not just had different dreams, but dreamed different, if we had never met. Actually you’re right, this must have been years before we met, but in my memory, you’re in it. I wanted to take you home even then, to my house, and play Like Lust for you, not so much a parting gift, but a revenge love song, because like me, and not like you, Like Lust is interested in where we can go new tonight and not so much in how we are held, but how we are lifted.
The first time you ever held someone’s hand there was a tenderness that was inescapable, a naiveté that not only propelled the rush of hormones but also the butterflies that couldn’t stop beating in your stomach. That same tenderness fills the voids of Salt Cathedral‘s “Good Winds,” a song that holds you tight then flings you out into the open air. Lead singer Juliana Ronderos’ voice is the intertwining fingers of first love that holds the song together; deep synths and drum machines rile around her stable “I will wait for you”-s, her own testament for waiting through the struggles of love. Get excited for more new stuff from Salt Cathedral coming at you soon.
On March 26th, Atlanta’s A.ware (one half of enterprising hip-hop duo Mach Five) will release a 10-track solo EP entitled Good Morning Midnight. The project’s charmingly mellow lead single “Yellow Watermelon” finds the rapper in deep reflection, sounding resolute, if a bit weary, as he details past exploits and pledges allegiance to his boys. Producers Ronnie P and Kyle Pro Stewart’s tranquil tones and heartsick Avant sample provide the perfect foil for the rapper’s hardened edges. It’s both uplifting and a little heavy—depending on your agenda, it would make a nice soundtrack for some casual stargazing or scrolling through texts from an old flame before deleting them for good. Download the track below.
Sprinkled with Aaliyah samples and back to back claps, this is the type of song born of 90′s inspiration but taken straight to 2014. Not sure how much I know about BC KINGDOM aside from being featured on Solange’s St. Heron compilation but man I’m digging this. I wanna don my dancing shoes and make a youtube video where I lip sync all the lyrics, send it privately to my crush and send a slew of kissy face emoji’s.
The beginning is spent propped between pillows, layers of cotton, silk, and hair. The anticipation of each beck and call sees your heart tested and sold; troubled days wash with fast forgiveness. Your independence becomes a smoking shadow dictated by another’s whisper. His eyes bat you to sweet surrender. Her lips lick wounds. Warm skin beneath the coldest of moons. It’s just too easy to pretend and so hard to doubt. That face could get you through anything—but anything isn’t everything.
Sometimes I resent the moon; the dark; the hours that call you to silent slumber. I watch as your brow furrows with thoughts of tomorrow’s responsibilities and spy the early call set to your alarm. You shrug off the day’s wear and let it slump into a lazy pile; my eyes follow your bare skin across the room until you disappear beneath the heap of soft linens. I ease my way beside your buried shape and run my fingers through your tangled mane, along your jawline, and across your bare chest. I nuzzle into you, trying hard not to miss you as we sleep; connected bodies drifting in separate dreams, anticipating the waking hours spent in each other’s gaze.
When the monstrous bass line has vanished, after the demonic squiggles of keyboards have been erased, after the compulsion to dance has disappeared, is anything left of Caribou’s pulsating Odessa?
Oakland’s Astronauts, Etc.’s answer is a big fat Yes. Anchored by a placid synthesizer, menacing and mysterious like a hopefully-frozen lake, Anthony Ferraro’s cooing falsetto takes center stage, exposing the tale of the life “she let him siphon away” that Caribou let lurk in the shadows of his frenzied recording.
Strings and hissing drums arrive slowly and gently, accumulating like snow, but they never come between your ear and Ferraro’s hushed voice. There’s more to Odessa than a party, Ferraro insists, and now it’s hard to hear it as anything besides a dirge.
“Odessa” appears on the first Non•Market Compilation, a collection of covers by East Bay bands operating as the recently formed Non•Market Collective.
Legs pumping back and forth as fast as I can with the air pulsing around my ears, I’m a superhero on my swing. With my buddy behind me pushing my back as I come flying backwards, he’s Chewie and I’m Han. I let my body go and suddenly I’m a rocket careening around asteroids and shooting the bad guys with my laser vision. It’s this innocence I miss most about being young; my buddy and I tackling any problem, imaginary or real. Which is something that MVSCLES takes me back to with such ease, their songwriting feels youthful and un-rushed, like what’s being put forth is coming from that time as a kid when you had no worries. This is more evident with the video for “Somethin,” a video in the making for 50 years, (cut and spliced footage from band member Chad’s grandfather) a piecing of old footage that still holds it’s innocence and can make even the stoniest of people crack a smile.
Drunk off tequila and the sweat pouring off my body like I’m on a beach in Miami. I’m surrounded deep with strangers and friends alike, shoulder to shoulder swaying with songs. I’m drinking all this liquor but my throat feels parched like the Sahara. All I’m yearning for is a glass of water and Juan Wauters comes to the rescue. An oasis in a desert of insincere songs, Wauters sings with earnestness years beyond his age. In the video premiere to “Water,” Wauters showcases the bluntness of his songwriting, life that’s straightforward, so straightforward that you feel like you’re right there with him, swaying, singing, and asking for another glass of water.
I’ve recently been thinking about how weird time moves. When you’re stuck in the monotony of your everyday life, you look back at the past couple months and you wonder where the time went. When you have major life events happen back to back to back and you look back, it seems that time has barely moved. Hippie Sabotage appears have taken a cue from my train of thought, pulling both ideas into a stunning remix of Kyla La Grange’s subtle original. Slowly building La Grange’s vocals into a filtered haze, breaking it from monotony into jagged pieces with booming bass, then adding just the right amount of Jersey bed squeaks and delayed “whaaat’s” to make you want to press repeat again. Time kinda stops when you’re listening to this.
For years as a kid, I had this weird fear that ghosts were real, and they’d be pissed off at all of us who didn’t believe they were real. Woman’s Hour seem to know this tangible fear, too: that one day all the names would be erased from the billboards and the theatres and the piers and the magazines and the monuments. That instead of believing in ghosts, we live by the myths of immortality and our myths are not safe. Her Ghost is deceptively simple and understatedly exquisite, and above all: that there’s really nothing to fear, because the people you love become ghosts inside of you and like this, you keep them alive.