Warren G – Regulate… G Funk Era (1994)

Vs.

Souls of Mischief - 93 ’til Infinity (1993)

The Game is simple… if only one could exist which would it be? What’s more important… personal relevance, cultural significance, or simply being the better album all other things aside? Choice is yours…

Well it’s done! The Prolly viking tattoo I posted about a few weeks ago is now fully colored. And Steve Nunes now has yet another Мишка (or Мишка related in this case) graphic permanently etched into his skin. He’s got Мишка on his lips, he’s got it everywhere!

I wonder if Steve knows John Prolly is going to come to his house and make him prove he can do a bunny hop into a blog spin while reciting the lyrics to Burzum’s lyrics to “Det Som En Gang Var?” If he fails, well Prolly will personally slice that viking right off his hand foot. Prolly is just Metal (and pretty much a viking) like that.

Deerhunter - Halcyon Digest (2010) [4AD] // Grade: A

Said to nest at sea in winter, the halcyon is a mythical bird capable of calming the wind and waves with its outright charm. Its lure at full strength here, Bradford Cox and his Deerhunter brethren return with their fourth album, Halcyon Digest, a brilliant combination of the woozy head trips present on the mammoth Weird Era  Cont./Microcastle gulp with the pumping, meditative sparkle of the band’s early attempts and side-project efforts.

A known crate digger—”I see him every week,” remarked one Athens, GA record store owner I met this year, “flipping through the vinyl section”—the quartet’s latest succeeds in blurring the line between what’s contemporary and what’s musingly nostalgic. Halcyon is dotted with realized and inventive instrument layers (squelchy sequences, harmonicas) and absolutely restful hits. Capable of charming both the acts’ most headphone-tripped fans with its contemplative placements, Halcyon doles out to those new fans (there are still plenty) an arms-wide-open access to the band at its most computable.

Though the record is friendlier than ever before—the album cover may not look it—Deerhunter’s praised model of cathartic, free-thinking pop is still here buzzing amongst song supports, lost-in-the-rabbit-hole density or psychedelic revivalism. The first worldwide LP for label 4AD, Halcyon Digest was recorded at the band’s hometown Chase Park Transduction Studio in Athens, GA. Self-produced by the group; the man responsible for working Merriweather Post Pavilion, Ben Allen, handled the album’s mixing.

Halcyon’s tunes are brilliantly placed, played and delivered over its heavy 46-minute runtime. Your first moment back from Weird Era (or Rainwater’s EP land if you got it) is the loopy serenity of opener “Earthquake.” Backed by acoustic twirls and handclaps, this is not the towering diving density from before. The beat clicks on like an 808 and is coolly refreshing after the moment Bradford Cox’s lyrical calm washes over. This thump is also present on the  water-droplet, múm-sounding “Helicopter,” over which Cox laments “No one cares for me, I keep no company.”

The band’s greener grass growing tall, Deerhunter ventures into bar-counter, working-man’s blues on the Springsteen-spiced pair (there’s saxophone!) of “Fountain Stairs” and “Coronado.” The latter opens directly with a gracious quirk that begs inclusion to the new Apple ad, before launching into a Boss-hinted roll-along, pianos supporting. Though downright lovely, “Cornonado” might be the most un-Deerhunter Deerhunter track so far.

There’s no song here not worthy of critical mention. “Sailing” whispers along like some Radiohead or Clinic B-side; the stunning “Memory Boy” resonates a Christmas song gone deep— chiming bells and apparent infection included— with the diaristic lines “That October, he came over everyday, the smell of loose leaf…” drifting from Cox.  On the 60s (think the classic “Blue Angel”) ditty “Basement Scene,” the wirey singer’s lyrics are some of the most accessible yet. “Dream a little dream all about the basement scene. I don’t wanna wake up, I don’t wanna wake up. If you’ve seen the light turn gold, come out tonight and we’ll get stoned. I don’t wanna get old.” The hazy sound of a tape spinning on a four-track reel ends the song; at the 3:40 mark you’re actually hoping to hear the click of a basement exiled band pressing stop on the machine.

It’s known that Cox provides heavy input on every Deerhunter album, though, it’s guitarist Lockett Pundt’s midway point “Desire Lines” that shines as a real standout; it’s a measure for just how sociable the band can make a song these days. Written by the Lotus Plaza player, “Desire” harks to something Interpol might do at their most comfy. It’s a breezy tune supported by vivid piano hits and rolling, 60s bass. The track’s lyrics, a pertinent piece of the Deerhunter allure; “Whatever goes up, must come down,” are perfect for that new fan’s bobbing sing-along session. The track ends, in pure weighty accord, with an almost two-minute krauty pop, guitar jam coda landing the song just shy of the seven-minute mark.

It’s no secret that Halcyon Digest is about about memories and how we interpret them. Singer Cox said of the album’s title that it’s namely about “The way that we write, rewrite and edit our memories to be a digest version of what we want to remember.” It’s this timescape that keeps the act’s fourth album effortlessly exciting, moving and downright stunning as a career-marking step in the right direction.

Warpaint’s full length debut, The Fool is set to release in late October courtesy of Rough Trade records. You may or may not have heard about the California Dream Pop band, but their upcoming album will surely be one that’s dissected frontwards and backwards by every indie centric blog on the web.

Leading the promo charge for that album is this curious video for a David Bowie cover they did. And it’s not of just any David Bowie song they’re covering… it’s my favorite Bowie song ever, “Ashes to Ashes.” Those of you unfamiliar with it, it’s a sort of sequel to Bowie’s classic “Space Oddity” and appeared on 1980′s Scary Monsters (and Super Creeps), one of Bowie’s best and more under-appreciated albums.

This cover isn’t set to appear on The Fool, so I’m not really to sure what it’s for… I guess it was done just to be done. The video was made by Freddie Paull with the help of Kyle Ferchau and Jon Lewis, and consists of a bunch of time lapse shots across Arizona. It’s a cute cover version but can’t come close to trumping the original.

Wouldn’t that make for an awesome Hip Hop duo? Well it’s not. Sorry. But Nick Gazin, the Toilet Cobra was recently sent over by Vice to interview Gucci Mane for a VBS.TV feature that will air sometime soon (we’ll post it up whenever it does). But that’s not all, Vice went for a total Gucci and Gazin overkill by having Nick draw a 4 page comic inspired by his encounter with Gucci Mane.

Skream - Outside the Box (2010) [Tempa] // Grade: A

Dubstep has yet to be graced with a record that defines the genre, yet Skream’s Outside The Box may well have finally achieved this status. From subtle opener ‘Perforated’, to the finale of ‘Epic Last Song’, Skream’s Outside the Box ranks among the best album releases of 2010, blending dubstep with UK funky, future garage and drum and bass. Skream’s ability to give the nod to all sub genres and categories that contributed to the worldwide phenomenon that is now termed Dubstep, is an indicator of his versatility as an artist, and reaffirms his position as one of the founding fathers of Croydon’s dubstep scene.

Following the overwhelming success of his La Roux “In For The Kill”remix, a track that put dubstep on the map in 2009, Skream collaborates with a grip of artists on this new record, ranging from Sam Frank to Freckles and La Roux. Skream’s artistic freedom is demonstrated two tracks in, with hip-hop tinged dub “8 Bit Baby” a collaboration with LA based rapper Murs. No stranger to hype, Skream’s been receiving a lot of props lately for his Magnetic Man side-project with Artwork and Benga; whose hotly anticipated debut album is due for release this November via Columbia. However, his not being signed to a major label as a solo artist, seems to be Skream’s biggest strength, giving him more room to push the envelope.

Outside The Box is a piece of work worthy of it’s title; as the box resembles a genre saturated by producers in seek of the heaviest wobble. Yet Skream does the precise opposite; the heaviest track “Wibbler” is sandwiched in the middle of the record, and is more in tune with his recent Freeizm EPs, The rest of the release is both mellow and well executed, the 128 BPM orchestral vibes of “A Song For Lenny” juxtapose brilliantly with future garage anthem “The Epic Last Song”; a pacey banger rounding off the record. Whether you’re a fan of dubstep or not, this album is a must for all electronic music enthusiasts, and offers a variety of future directions for a growing genre in the current musical climate.

Welcome back Dexter, you slimy piece of shit! I didn’t realize how stoked I was for the season premiere of this show until I was moments away, with a little bit of the sac tightening from anticipation. While last season’s finale would have been a perfect coda to the entire series, I’m equally intrigued to see where they go with the show after blowing up the entire status quo.

After Rita was axed (or was it knifed?) by the Trinity Killer at the end of last season, Dexter spends the entire premiere in an understandable post-widowing funk. His guilt is understandable, seeing that the whole reason she was iced was because he was busy satisfying his hard-on for blood. Dude laments quite a lot, and goes through the typical motions: I’m not a human, I lie to everyone, my hair is a fucking rat’s nest (comb that shit dude), and I can’t do this.

By the end of the episode, we’re right where we expected to be: with Dexter realizing that he needs to try and commit to the family life, even if he has to supplement that shit with some helpings of murder, and stabby-stab every once in a while.

The highlight on Dexter’s end of the episode had to be the flashbacks to his initial date with Rita. In case you missed their not-so subtle subtext, the date was their entire relationship in a microcosm. Flashback pontificating! It was nice though, and served as the goodbye that Dexter couldn’t provide. So Dexter returns from the good life on the high seas, having made his peace within the dark walls inside his skull-plate.

Ready to move on, and shit!

All is not to last though. Douchebag McAcneface, Quinn, is totally onto Dexter. The great irony being, of course, that this is the one murder that Dexter didn’t commit. Quinn spent a good amount of time between seasons cutting weight, and returns svelte and ready to take a more prominent role in the series.

I’m not sure how I feel about Quinn picking up the scent of death that Dexter trails behind him at all times. The whole thing smacks of a total Doakes analog. Haven’t we already seen the Hard Ass Cop within the division make his personal mission to bring down Morgan? We’ve already seen a cop peer beyond the veil into Dexter’s legit world.

I suppose that he needs a foil every season, but coming off something as dope as Mitchell, the Quinn as Doakes twist strikes me as stale. Cue a season of Dexter trying to stay one step ahead of Quinn as we the audience clench our asses in fear that the dude is going to be turned out. A good amount of time will be spent rooting for the homicidal broseph to escape detection.

Also dude, Quinn, you shed all that weight between season, it’s probably time for you to pick up some new clothes. Get that shit tailored, son! If an assclown like me who bathes in Cheez-It crumbs feels your style is stumbling, you probably have to up your game. You look frumpy as fuck! You can do better.

Especially if you’re banging Deborah! God damn, yo! Well done, or something. Nothing says “I’m moist and you’re hard” like scrubbing your Sister-In-Law’s blood off your brother’s hacienda. I’m not sure how I feel about their hook-up. Particularly because I don’t like Quinn or his new dumb cheek bones. I’ve always feared that Deb was going to bring down down her brother out of some moral insistence, and her biblical knowledge of Quinny could ultimately perpetuate this fear of mine.

Can’t a murderous vigilante get some peace, yo? He’s cleaning up the streets of murderers!

Wait, is he? For me to actively root for our boy Dexter, he needs to keep nixing dudes to the serial killers, rapists, and other breakers of human decency. Those who threaten the fabric of society. Not dickbags.

I’ll float you this one senseless murder, Dex. And uh, the innocent murder at the beginning of season three. And last season’s mistaken murder of that douchey photographer. But c’mon, dude! My entire stake in you is predicated on the fact that you’re like the goddamn Batman, but with knives instead of karate kicks.

But yeah, consider this my last gimme. Just cause some piece of social refuse gave you some shit and made some oh so uncouth comments about your Zombie Wife slobbering his knob, don’t mean you can bludgeon the dude’s pate into paste. Sure, you had a rough day, but c’mon.

You’re on the side of light!

So the stakes are set. The players in motion. Dexter is the newly widowed father trying to maintain his family and his thirst for body bags. Quinn fulfills the point of dramatic tension regarding Morgan’s nocturnal hobbies. And the preview hinted at the predictable but still enjoyable other serial killer or killers that populate the streets of Miami. I’m game.

What’d you guys think?

Мишка Fall 2010 2nd Delivery Now Online & In-Store!

Fall. How great is Fall? It might be the most American season there is. Fall holidays are distinctly American. Sure, Halloween grew out of the European holiday of Samhain but what we have now is a purely American invention. And Thanksgiving? That out-Americans all the other holidays. It commemorates when Indians gave the pilgrims maize, which we now call corn, and forever ruined America’s nutrition by influencing our high corm diets. Celebrate this American season with America’s most American company, Мишка, which is an old Indian word for maize.

Our second installment of Fall clothing has just been made available to the public and it’s one of the best yet, featuring  some of my favorite things to come out of this company thus far. In the hats department we’ve got the amazing Neighborhood Sniper Snapback, All black with olde English lettering you’ll look like a goth Eazy-E with this thing atop your dome. We’ve also got these Rx New Eras. The letters Rx have been telegraph code for “receive” and an abbreviation for a chemical reaction but most people remember seeing it in old pharmacies. To most people this means drugs. Something tells me this hat will be sold out before the week’s out.

In shirts we got the Irreversible Binomial garment, featuring a revolting image of a leaking jar containing a a two-headed pickled punk baby with Cyco Simon and the Keep Watch eyeball on it’s shoulders. We’ve also got some classy as Hell rugby shirts and Rolling Stones inspired flannels that’ll be sure to make heads turn. The Mishka cult also gave birth to some Death related sweatshirts. If you think Death is cool then you are right. Death is very cool.

Our coats are more amazing than you can usually tell from photos and this season has a couple new ones that are just sick. The Watergate Waxed Canvas Parka is an especially nice piece.  This thing has about a million pockets, some visible and some hidden, draw strings at the bottom to cinch that shit up and keep you warm, and the waxed canvas should keep you pretty dry in light rains. The other jackets are almost equally sick but this thing’s like a G.I. Joe vehicle with a zillion play features.

Of course we also have some brand new accessories. We’ve got some new leather belts that look nice and worn in.  We’ve also got some real nice pants to implement those belts upon and some wallets that zipper up for secure money holdingness.

So many fine clothes that look good worn together or separate.  Nothing but the best for the best season of the year. If you haven’t yet be sure to flip through our entire Fall 2010 lookbook shot by Marley Kate. I’m positive you’ll find a thing or two or three you’ll want in your wardrobe for this season.

Мишка
350 Broadway
Brooklyn, NY
718-388-1725
—
Мишка LA
1547 Echo Park Ave
Los Angeles, CA
213-536-4234

“Champagne wishes, thirty white bitches, I mean this shit is..fuckin’ ridiculous…fuckin’ ridiculous…”

- Kanye West, “So Appalled”

Like any hip hop head and astute internet journalist worth my weight in Twitter followers, upon the release of this week’s G.O.O.D. Friday track in preparation for Kanye’s forthcoming album, Dark Twisted Fantasy, I quickly downloaded it and listened with rapt attention. A history buff as well, I have in the last month watched the PBS’ excellent documentary on Jack Johnson, the first African-American heavyweight boxing champion of the world.

The link between these two stellar and groundbreaking black men? Caucasian women, their hyper-sexualization by culture and the media, and that they stand 100 years apart on a spectrum where at one end America would vilify black a man for that choice, to now bopping their heads as he sings a rhyme about that very same thing.

It’s been a long road. Jack Johnson stood supreme as the definitive embodiment of both the latent and exposed fears of white Americans at the turn of the century. Strong, intelligent, skilled, cultured and due in large part to the aforementioned traits, sexually attractive. When Jack Johnson defeated James J. Jeffries on July 4, 1910, it set off a spate of vicious race riots nationwide. Furthermore, as Johnson’s acclaim grew, so grew his opulent appetites. This of course given Johnson’s fame and now role as a high society player (when not breaking race barriers and busting heads), included being in the company of white women, in all turns of the phrase.

By 1912, Johnson had been arrested on two separate occasions for violation of the Mann Act, by transporting of white prostitutes (his second fiance Lucille Cameron and another woman, Belle Schreiber) across state lines for immoral purposes. By 1915 he lost the World Championship to Jess Willard in Havana, Cuba and his proclivities toward white women having forced him to jump bail and flee the country. Johnson was a revolutionary man who merely preferred the company of white women, and in being persecuted for it, became a case of great shame and ridicule, and a victory for racism nationwide.

Let’s fast forward to 2010. And as we do this, let’s stop off and note Little Richard and Chuck Berry taking the brunt of blackballing by a white controlled music industry  due to the sexuality of their craft exciting white female audiences. Let’s stop through the visceral sensuality and deeply sexual style of Jimi Hendrix’s guitar playing, and heck, for shits and giggles, let’s even remember that white rock groupie Cynthia Plaster Caster made a casting of his penis for posterity. Let’s continue and see legendary rapper Ice-T looking every part of Superfly and The Mack with his wife Coco, a bodacious blonde playing up to the cameras every bit the stereotypical whore to fit Ice-T’s sexual gangsta persona. Now, let’s end this with Kanye’s proclamation that “making it” as a terrific and ballerific black man in 2010 is to experience the reality of drinking champagne in the company of 30 white women. The fact that he refers to white women as “bitches,” is noteworthy in general, but even further, the presumption that “it’s the show, the afterparty, and the hotel” really is a fine observation point of how culture has evolved in a century.

Music is the grand unifier here. The place held in popular culture by sports at the turn of the century is now held by music. Sports are a far more commercialized, universally appreciated and not as polarizing a topic. Race in sports is a far less sensationalized issue nowadays. It’s rather persona lifestyle choices, like heterosexual vs. homosexual that are receiving the brunt of the scrutiny.

Even within politics the polarization is lessening. Obama was elected President, the head of the Republican Party is black, and for the most part Tea Party loyalists across racial lines are seen as outmoded outliers and not people that have a realistic success rate of putting asunder the US’ racially unified agenda. Musically, we have reached a point where sonic quality and skilled craftsmanship mean far more than the racial composition of the composer, and Kanye’s audacious statement is a dope chorus that people can identify with instead of a moment where people stop, pause and become violent.

As always, it’s my belief that it’s never the person that opens the door who truly reaps the benefit of success, but rather those who continue to push the door wider and wider with each successive generation. Jack Johnson’s dalliances with white prostitutes enraged a nation and led to his demise. Kanye West has “champagne wishes with 30 white bitches” and when Dark Twisted Fantasy drops, I’m fairly sure a lot more than thirty white bitches will drink champagne with Kanye and gladly engage in dalliances with him. And I doubt Mr. West will feel any threat of persecution as he enjoys their company. As well, I’m absolutely certain an epic number of white Americans will gladly buy the album and never think twice.

Food for thought.

Salem - King Night (2010) [IAMSOUND] // Grade: B+

King Night starts with a gut-punch of noise, and that’s when you know: the new Salem’s not the old Salem, but it’s not so reimagined either. Hard slaps of slow-mo beats and boxy FM synth hooks. Gravel-mouthed raps, celestial vocals, some nightmare choir choking on an “O Holy Night” sample. Chopped and screwed and totally fucked. The same old hypnogogic thing, you know, but pay attention. Do you hear that? The separation between light and dark is suddenly more pronounced, the atmosphere expansive and flickering. King Night, this deep grave of a debut full-length, is good in a way Salem haven’t yet been good: it’s complete.

And it popped up on the heels of a ruinous reality. Fact: Salem is a myth. They don’t exist in actual time. We’ve seen what happens when they try; we’ve watched them booed offstage for revealing those strings and how they pull them. Fact. To experience Salem as a real, live thing would be to gulp a bottle of Robotussin and stand in a room full of smoke and sweaty strippers; to chomp on some sugar-acid and fuck on a headstone; to find a junkie prostitute and cover him in glitter. Stark imagery is their shroud of mystery. Otherwise, they’re just three people you’d run into anywhere, slouching on stage with so much awkward noise.

But King Night removes them entirely from that dimension. It’s an unreal chiaroscuro, this fresh hell separating them from both their live performance and the witch house world that’s sprouted up around them. Tracks like the big-bass “Asia” and Carpenter-doom “Frost” feel terrifying, but in a distant and textural way. Some moments are legitimately beautiful, like the title track’s hum of a hook or the ever-recurrent “Redlights”; this is the third time it’s appeared on a Salem release, but it flows here with a new, watery physicality. And final jam “Killer” steps just left of their world completely. It’s a slowed-down Cure, a gravestone Sundays, flashing bits of a sweet and sad pop song beneath all the fuzz and sway and felonious assault. The ultimate period at the end of Salem’s latest sentence. King Night perpetuates the old myth and creates an even greater one: the existence of Salem as not a joke or a gimmick or some bullshit live band, but a hellish, person-less dreamscape capable of both daylight and dark. Just pretend they don’t exist. It’s easier that way.