Thursday, August 11, 2005


Slept- Guy Trapped In A Situation

The hardest ones to write about are the gems.

This one is very hard to write about.

There’s usually some kind of hook on first listen, genre association or sound, production, instrumental signature that fires synapses and makes it easy for me to associate and begin to understand what the intent of a band is.

There are some little hints scattered throughout the album- these slightly off-kilter vocals that sound ever-so-slightly slowed down and thus kinda like Ween, except that mentioning Ween implies either smoking a lot of pot or being really silly, and Slept is neither (there is a sense of humor, but it’s very dry- you pick up on it after a few spins). Production occasionally veers towards the alt-country side of things even though the music itself doesn’t fit into that category. Not terribly heavy, but not totally mellow, either- more moody, I think, than anything else, although that word has implications of goth or whatever.

A well-produced, cohesive record that’s not easy to pin down, one that covers distance when you’re not looking.

Slowdive- Souvlaki

I’m not sure if I’ve ever listened to this record before. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve heard it plenty of times, but I’ve always been so busy making out that I haven’t paid much attention to the music, dig?

There’s the dreamy, ethereal numbers, the ones that remind me of a less tripped-out Portishead or a more sexy Low- shoegazer rock, if yr. so inclined, but more sultry. The other kind of songs on the record sound like almost ambient, like a microphone has been pressed against an age-old creaky air conditioner.

(Ladies, I am single.)


This is going to be a fun one- two ex-roommates, a current one, and one quarter of the FUCKING GREATEST NEW HAMPSHIRE EMO MATH METAL BAND TO EVER WALK THE EARTH.

There are certain performances that achieve legendary status. Slow Fore has one that had woven its way into the fabric of the tribe’s oral history, an evening that is still talked about every six months or so. This summer night at the Green Street Grill, a tiny place, the band playing at ear-shattering volumes and mowing everyone down with the sheer power of their performance. I wasn’t there, but I can still picture it: Kristina kinda rockin’ back and forth with her guitar while Todd stomped in place with his, shaking his head like an insolent diplomat as he unfurled lyrical flags of confusion into his forest of Floyd metaphor. Stoops, of course, probably with a new tattoo and a wifebeater, pogoing with no shoes on, looking like an upside-down Y, pounding the shit out of full chords on his bass. And J., behind the drums, burning smoking holes into the back wall with a stare that would make Rollins soil those little shorts of his.

Todd barely restraining himself from playing an eight-minute epic about icebergs or trees with like nine off-time parts. Kristina playing what she knew with enough authority to make you forget what she didn’t. Dave screaming his fucking head off and bashing his shaved noggin on a ceiling rafter as the floor beneath him shook with the repetitive stress of his piledriving leaps. J. back there, fuming, trying to hit the drums as hard as possible.

Math, melody, more pop than the signifiers suggest. Trying to make sense of things enough to convey them, tripping over the trappings, getting pissed, starting over again. Awesome.


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