Tuesday, March 5, 2024 
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Editor's note: We have activated the Neumu 44.1 kHz Archive. Use the link at the bottom of this list to access hundreds of Neumu reviews.

+ Donato Wharton - Body Isolations
+ Svalastog - Woodwork
+ Tim Hecker - Harmony In Ultraviolet
+ Rosy Parlane - Jessamine
+ Jarvis Cocker - The Jarvis Cocker Record
+ Múm - Peel Session
+ Deloris - Ten Lives
+ Minimum Chips - Lady Grey
+ Badly Drawn Boy - Born In The U.K.
+ The Hold Steady - Boys And Girls Together
+ The Blood Brothers - Young Machetes
+ The Places - Songs For Creeps
+ Camille - Le Fil
+ Wolf Eyes - Human Animal
+ Christina Carter - Electrice
+ The Decemberists - The Crane Wife
+ Junior Boys - So This Is Goodbye
+ Various Artists - Musics In The Margin
+ Rafael Toral - Space
+ Bob Dylan - Modern Times
+ Excepter - Alternation
+ Chris Thile - How To Grow A Woman From The Ground
+ Brad Mehldau - Live in Japan
+ M Ward - Post-War
+ Various Artists - Touch 25
+ The Mountain Goats - Get Lonely
+ The White Birch - Come Up For Air
+ Camera Obscura - Let's Get Out of This Country
+ Coachwhips - Double Death
+ Various Artists - Tibetan And Bhutanese Instrumental And Folk Music, Volume 2
+ Giuseppe Ielasi - Giuseppe Ielasi
+ Cex - Actual Fucking
+ Sufjan Stevens - The Avalanche
+ Leafcutter John - The Forest And The Sea
+ Carla Bozulich - Evangelista
+ Barbara Morgenstern - The Grass Is Always Greener
+ Robin Guthrie - Continental
+ Peaches - Impeach My Bush
+ Oakley Hall - Second Guessing
+ Klee - Honeysuckle
+ The Court & Spark - Hearts
+ TV On The Radio - Return To Cookie Mountain
+ Awesome Color - Awesome Color
+ Jenny Wilson - Love And Youth
+ Asobi Seksu - Citrus
+ Marsen Jules - Les Fleurs
+ The Moore Brothers - Murdered By The Moore Brothers
+ Regina Spektor - Begin To Hope
+ The 1900s - Plume Delivery EP
+ Alejandro Escovedo - The Boxing Mirror
+ Function - The Secret Miracle Fountain
+ Sonic Youth - Rather Ripped
+ Loscil - Plume
+ Boris - Pink
+ Deadboy And The Elephantmen - We Are Night Sky
+ Glissandro 70 - Glissandro 70
+ Calexico - Garden Ruin (Review #2)
+ Calexico - Garden Ruin (Review #1)
+ The Flaming Lips - At War With The Mystics
+ The Glass Family - Sleep Inside This Wheel
+ Various Artists - Songs For Sixty Five Roses
+ The Fiery Furnaces - Bitter Tea
+ Motorpsycho - Black Hole/Blank Canvas
+ The Red Krayola - Introduction
+ Metal Hearts - Socialize
+ American Princes - Less And Less
+ Sondre Lerche And The Faces Down Quartet - Duper Sessions
+ Supersilent - 7
+ Band Of Horses - Everything All The Time
+ Dudley Perkins - Expressions
+ Growing - Color Wheel
+ Red Carpet - The Noise Of Red Carpet
+ The Essex Green - Cannibal Sea
+ Espers - II
+ Wilderness - Vessel States

44.1 kHz Archive

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Blood Brothers

She cringes when Paul Banks sings "the subway is a porno," but I can't hear the words for the slurs, can never the fuck understand what he's saying. While Banks adjusts his trousers, and Carlos D's Herpes slicks excretory sheen into his Crispin Glover coif, Johnny Whitney lies down on the railings that never lay in the unread sub(way)-text of Banks's empty lines, and, in that that voice of a "South Park" character, sings "the subway is a numb field." His words are shrill wails of human pain as he's bitten by an army of Crispin's double-crossed rats, every inch of every incursion like the violated flesh of a humankind driven underground, blood-red under the grey pallor of modernity, of post-millennial life as morgue, man rotting as this planet of the apes lies dying, under the command of an Idiot King playing Big God, raping souls whilst demanding his fellating populace be inured with dragged-down-syndrome. Whitney's screams wield their words like a syringe, wailing "one with fake porno tits, a padlock on her lips, disposable tan, biodegradable hands," the wails married to Jordan Blilie's narrative conscience; the two sing, at once, of trading in an old wife — "some things never get better, like used cars and bad livers" — for a young one whose burnt-toast skin is orange like a tarnished trophy. It ain't so easy to the fuck understand what they're singing, but reading the litany of crimes on the lyric sheet of Crimes is nothing but poetry, poetry in that way that song lyrics never are, profound both on page and in song, with Whitney and Blilie on lyrical song in the songs on Crimes, fourth-time-fine as the duo up the thematic ante of the combustible …Burn, Piano Island, Burn on a disc that rescues hardcore polemics from the utterly prosaic. The down-with-the-scene hardcore kids complain that The Blood Brothers (who've apparently dropped the The) have gone soft even as they shine a record hard as a diamond. Amidst the car-crash wreckage of the band's duality — the twin voices wrapped together like twisted metal and mingled limbs, the sharp guitar shards piercing the stretched flesh of the drums — Crimes depicts the American Dream as nightmare, upward mobility stripped naked in front of a sea of slack-jawed gawkers, pop culture's pantomimes striking hospital poses as they're wheeled away from the scene of the impact, pimped ride as death machine, dying as entertainment. Crimes is American Life as sacrifice, public executions as popcorn fodder, injected men in neon-orange jumpsuits cut from the same cloth as the deluded humans who believe their reality needs the validity of being witnessed by a television nation, both offerings being immolated for sheer schadenfreude's sake. There's little malicious pleasure to be had in this "pit of celebrity pregnancies," this America of "soldiers spewing black cum from their victory hard-on," this Life as refuse, human beings being "scrapped valentines" and "tangerine rinds." In America: "The hangman selling tickets to the sparkling death scene/ Tonight we watch the rope choke a conscience clean." This is America: "Brown summer, stench wind/ The globe spinning on a rusty hinge/ Get in your car and go to your job/ Like a train that's being robbed." This is America: "I just want the flag to be my baby/ But her kissing breath is so revolting/ Tastes like hospitals, machine guns/ Burning hair, McDonald's buns." And this is America: "We're crimes, crimes, crimes, crimes, crimes."

by Anthony Carew

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