PR-free regiomontanos know how to get down…
[Video]
[6.67]
Mallory O’Donnell: Springy, convivial, wasted beauty from one of the breakout records of the year. Thankfully lacks the main distinguishing characteristic of pop music made north of Texas: the utter inability to laugh at oneself. Did we mention it’s dead sexy?
[9]
Andrew Casillas: This song is so cool I want to make out with it behind an alley.
[8]
Brad Shoup: Unlike many of their shaggy peers, White Ninja seem to at least partially understand this: metallic reverb is desirable when crafting beats, but as an effect for guitar, it grates quickly. Thus, they allow the shockingly sunny processed melody to fold in on itself a few times. The vocals arrive at a distorted remove, and combine with the meandering delivery to craft a flaneur feel. The result is kind of an update of Lou Reed circa The Bells, with Willie Mitchell producing.
[9]
Anthony Easton: I appreciate what they are doing conceptually here, but I find it so abrasively ugly that I find it very difficult to listen to. It is a physically painful experience.
[5]
Edward Okulicz: The first twenty seconds of this gave me motion sickness, and I swear I was lying down at the time. It immediately improves into a quite pleasant cruisy little 70s AM radio beachside drive of a groove but that’s too short-lived for my tastes.
[3]
Michelle Myers: Utilizing the sonic palette of Animal Collective album filler, this takes far too long to find its tune. At its best, the mood here is pleasantly bouncy and irreverent. Unfortunately, this song manages to be both repetitive and formless.
[4]
Alex Ostroff: The mumbling is so evocative that I’m nearly convinced it’s a blissfully stoned Kevin Drew fronting Broken Social Scene. The summer sheen and casual strut swirl together into the intoxicating sound of a disco station’s signal fading in and out of range, perpetually just out of reach, as you drive down the highway into the sunset.
[7]
Michaela Drapes: There are so many synesthetic associations here; I keep catching snatches of textures (rubbery?) and flavors (salty?) and curious memories, the soundtracks to weird sex dreams. Are these guys the house band at a cyberbrothel in another dimension?
[7]
Zach Lyon: The first dozen-or-so times I listened to this, it was burned on a CD in my car, and the mp3 conked out at 2:08 every time. It just stopped, and the rest of the track was blank space. My review at the time: “Oh my God. [10]” I was obviously quite salivating over the chance to hear the rest of the track, to discover what sonic turns of epic sexiness might greet me next in this twenty car pileup of a grind. But once I tracked down the full copy, I found that it didn’t quite deliver: maybe it was the anticipation, or maybe I just need to listen with a clearer head, but the latter half of the song sounds a lot like giving up halfway through. Believe me, I do love that sure repetition of fwomp-fwomp-fwomp-fwomp-chigurh-chigurh-chigurh-chigurh-thwack-thwack-EXHALE, I just wish it didn’t have to swoop in to save the track from its own aimless meanders on occasion.
[8]