…Something Like This Band And Thank You Paul For Suggesting This I Mean Even Making An Acronym Out Of It Seems Difficult Like Honestly I Have A Tough Time Already Trying To Remember The Five Letters MBDTF To Abbreviate The Kanye Album And I Guess You Should Just Truncate It To A Phrase Like People Do With That Fiona Apple Album But What Words Do I Pick It’s So Stressful Should I Say “Oh, We’re Reviewing A Song By ‘Have You Ever'” Or Do I Call Them “Jane Fonda Aerobic VHS” Or Just “Jane Fonda” Also How Do You Think She Feels About This And Also How Would She Abbreviate Their Name As Well As…
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[5.00]
[6]
Micha Cavaseno: This group gets -5000 points honestly just for being generic indie rock with the most portentously awful pseudo-ironic name in the history of band names. I mean, good lord, take a look at that fucker. Oh, and if you thought that my review was going to take aim solely at the band name, I COULD, but let’s talk about this fucking piece of shit record, too. First off, this man is completely unable to sing, and the minute he starts driving to that chorus it’s like waiting to see Scott Steiner-level veins ready to rip and burst out of his nose. Secondly, the lyric “Your old lady she’s on drugs” was uttered in 2015. This motherfucker had *Stephen A. Smith vox* THE UNMITIGATED GALL to say this David O. Russell level dialog on wax. Even in the 60s when motherfuckers like Mick Jagger and Lou Reed were playing around with goofy “Heheheheh, people do drugs just to cope maaaaaan” lyrics, they didn’t foist it out as lackadaisically. Plus not one goddamn human alive is really out here calling women an old lady unironically and even in the context of jest that shit is played the fuck out. But moreover and thirdly, it has been over a decade that I have had to suffer this generic fucking indie rock bullshit ever since K-Rock DJs were told by a bunch of coked out degenerate losers in a cesspool like Brooklyn that The Vines were gonna have a future. This The National type churn of garbage has only one use, and that is its intro will serve a good 15 seconds in background noise for an episode of some trash HBO series. It has been over a fucking decade that I have to suffer this buzzbin leftover glory days type bullshit rock, and I want no fucking part of it anymore. That organ sound fucking sucks, and look at this farcical band name! EVEN THEY KNOW THEY’RE NOT FUCKING WORTH IT. This gets a [0], but it should get a lethal injection and have every server that’s held the MP3 purged with fucking fire. Jane Fonda should sue their asses into bankruptcy and a future of temp work in a printer manufacturing chain somewhere in northwestern Pennsylvania where they live in a basement beneath some dude who blasts Buckcherry for five hours a night.
[0]
William John: The band name is only an obstacle if you’d forgotten how charming Alvvays and Chvrches were once you got over their flouting of orthographic convention, or that this group’s vaseline-smeared guitar pop contemporaries include the likes of King Gizzard & the Lizard Wizard and the Pains of Being Pure at Heart. The song itself is not the most ingenious use of organ this year (Susanne Sundfør, from a few countries to the west, waves hello) and threatens to overwhelm with twee. But the energetic call-and-response finale reflects the song’s propulsive nature; essentially, it’s a ripe soundtrack candidate for jostling and knee-knocking on a pub’s sticky carpet.
[7]
Alfred Soto: An unplayed organ sounds better than this lead singer.
[2]
Scott Ramage: The post-punk bassline and organ melody feel fully-formed, the kind of riffs that feel so obvious that it’s unbelievable they’ve not been done already. In lesser hands it would seem cliché, but here it feels more like an example of formalist song-writing. The filtered, scratchy vocals sound great on the verse, but the chorus falls into a yelpy soprano that breaks the illusion. It’s all been done before, so it’s more a barometer of how high a tolerance can be held for this type of thing. I still miss Love Is All.
[7]
Austin Brown: I’d call this DIY to a fault, but these days you can do it yourself and not accidentally lose the great melody you wrote by dunking it in a bunch of sonic murk.
[5]
Thomas Inskeep: With the exception of a few Blondie numbers, I’m pretty much hardwired to hate any song featuring Farfisa organ. I find the group’s name offensively stupid, and just about every element of this song screams of something Little Steven would love, which is another guarantee that I won’t.
[1]
Anthony Easton: This might be the dumbest band name that isn’t actively offensive — but the guitar has just enough indie jangle, and the vocals have that hard won 90s sheen (it sounds like the bastard child of PJ and Shirley Manson). I also like being told when and where people aren’t happy, though am bored of discussions of the dishonesty of suburban ennui.
[7]
Daisy Le Merrer: That old loud/quiet/loud template from the Pixies that was basically every song I listened to as a 90’s teen. Except it’s got saturated organ instead of saturated guitars. Makes for a pleasant time but please allow me to be an old fogey and ask why I would need this?
[5]
Scott Mildenhall: Presumably, if vocals submerged in abrasive clamour are your thing, you could be well on board with this, but wouldn’t it all be a lot nicer if everything was toned down a notch? Every appealing aspect feels overegged almost into oblivion, but who knows — perhaps it was created with the sort of people who might actually appreciate it in mind. In any case, the more pertinent question: is this is a more enjoyable listen than the Peter Powell aerobic LP? (No.)
[5]
Patrick St. Michel: The appeal of indie-pop is that it’s a world inviting anyone to pick up a guitar and get involved, where you and a few of your friends can (in theory) make music regardless of your chops. As charming as this idea is, though, it’s good to keep in mind it results in a flooded market where sometimes you hear a shambling number with especially brutal vocals and think…”yeah, you should have waited a little longer.”
[3]
Brad Shoup: Look, they had me at “Grey Panthers,” and they had that rinky organ then too. I respect the instinct to let the production bury whatever stupid shit you need to say: the melody’s what you gotta protect. And there’s a great one here: riding over the bass like some alt-rock buzzcut, then merging with the organ to produce: determination? Rebuke? No one tell me; this is seamless as is.
[8]
Madeleine Lee: Derivative, sloppy, and repetitive. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to push my way to the front to dance.
[9]