Vinyl Tap Fall 2012 by Vinyl Tap

Vinyl Tap Fall 2012

Staff

Table of Contents

Editor and Layout Editor: Arthi Aravind Illustrations: Katie Wood & Arthi Aravind

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Writers: Alex Cousins (Hip-Hop Genre Director) Alaric Powell Travis Carr (Singles Director) Gareth Bk (Loud Rock Genre Director) Will Barnes (Record Label Manager) Caitlin Goldblatt Caroline Creasey Arthi Aravind (Publications Director) Katie Wood (Publicity and Art Director)

— A Night in Bronson’s Court — Hair Soaked In Beer, Stereotypi cal Williamsburg Hipsters, and a Bloody Drumstick: My Concert Experiences of CMJ — The One Where I Hugged Blood Diamonds — Standouts From This Semester — Is Music Even Good? — So You Want To Be Kvlt: A Black Metal Primer — Lana Del Rey: Paradise EP Review — Crystal Castles: (III) Review — WCWMFest: A Retrospective

A Publication of WCWM 90.9-FM

CMJ 2012 RETROSPECTIVE

A Night in Bronson’s Court by Alex Cousins

“Calm the fuck down! This one’s mine.” Pinch-hitting as his own hype man, Action Bronson managed to stumble onto a moment of unintentional prescience. Having thrown a lit joint into the crowd moments before, Bronsolini slipped another out of his pocket and proceeded to light it as his crowd erupted. And just as much as that second joint, it was truly his crowd. Complex Magazine’s Judgment Night was from its very beginning a different sort of affair. The unassuming House of Vans skatepark in Greenpoint needed only the slightest alteration to accommodate the genre-specific stages set up in mirror formation. True to its host’s legacy, the night promised to blend hip-hop and rock in the same uncomfortable artificial balance most attempts to do the same develop into. After a decent pump-up DJ set from the Alchemist, the first performer of the night stepped out to minor applause. While most of those in attendance were still waiting in line for free booze and souvlaki, the staggeringly serious Ka made quick work of his relatively light setlist before finishing with style. His “Cold Facts” was by far his strongest track and could be held up as one of the best performances of the entire night. The cold, driving bass grabbed the attention of those in the attached courtyard, and after a few minutes his crowd had tripled in size. “Shit,” pined one of the many bespectacled and flannel-clad doublefisters, “We should have been here for this dude.” As if sensing the sentiment, Ka exited stage left with a shake of his head and a visible sigh. If anyone had a right to shake their heads, it was the concert organizers. What at first seemed like an exceptional turnout soon proved to be made up in no small part of locals who came for a cheap alternative to a night trolling Brooklyn’s finest bars and venues. Heads are heads, though, and having filled the House of Vans for the night the Complex staff saw fit to hit the open bar as hard and often as they could. Within minutes of Ka’s exit, Savior Adore seemed to materialize out of nowhere on the opposite stage. Fittingly, their music drew as little attention as their entrance. Although technically proficient in their nonspecific “fantasy pop,” the band’s selling point was undoubtedly the infectious spirit propagated by the almost sickeningly cutesy lead vocal duo. While lacking in tonal diversity, their set managed to keep the crowd entertained if not impressed. Less than a minute into Ratking’s incredibly raw hip-hop set, every occupant of the House of Vans seemed to pine in unison for Savoir Adore’s harmlessness and charm. The teenage quartet out of Harlem exhibited speedy yet sloppy flows, led most notably by their standout war chief Wiki and his sound reminiscent of Eminem’s early work. On the whole, though, the crew suffered from a general sense of disorganization along with poor balance on their production. Ratking’s set hinted at their great potential, but in its pupal state the group’s sound managed little more than to give the audience an excuse to get rowdy and loud themselves. All-female post-punk group Savages offered without a doubt the best rock show of the night. Though visibly quite fatigued on stage, the energy of their music swallowed up whatever doubts anyone might have had in regard to their level of commitment to the performance. Their sound seemed to leave the hip-hop contingent of the audience relatively satisfied, which no other rock act of the evening could claim. If there could be any criticism of Savages’ set, it would be toward whatever technical manager decided to lower the house volume mid-set. Taking this slight as a challenge, Savages responded with what could only

be described as an instrumental sneer toward the techs and the unruly RVDXR KLVN, who were set to burst even before Savages was finished. SpaceGhostPurrp and his KLVN were at best a disappointment. Aside from slinging invective A$AP Mob’s way at every opportunity, nearly the entire collective was trashed to the point that staying on beat (or even pronouncing their rhymes) was rendered impossible. About the only phrase that the crew could choke out in unison was the ever popular refrain “SUCK A NIGGA D” while the more zealous members of the collective mimed ejaculating onto the audience. As always, Purrp’s production was top notch, but it couldn’t save the performance from the KLVN’s shortcomings. As with Ratking, the lack of artistic maturity was really the greatest hindrance from an excellent show. Sans the other two members of Interpol, Paul Banks followed Purrp to little fanfare. Supposedly playing songs developed for his solo career, he managed to sound distinctly like an impeccable Interpol cover band who couldn’t quite remember the songs they were trying to mimic. This seemed to satisfy the crowd, but Banks’ forgettable set was clearly the final appetizer to Judgment Night’s main course. Action Bronson was the headline attraction, and he knew it. Strutting out to a remixed version of his own “Shiraz,” the would-be high inquisitor of Judgment Night bought off his audience’s favor by flinging upwards of forty dimebags into the exuberant crowd. His actual set playing second fiddle to his on-stage persona, Bronson romped through a few mixtape selections while only briefly dipping into Dr. Lecter’s numerous bangers. Roc Marciano, Meyhem Lauren, and Asher Roth were all pulled onstage in rapid succession for one or two tracks, while every heart in the building broke when Bronson performed “Bird on a Wire” without the fabulous RiFF RaFF. Bronson saw fit to join the audience mid-rhyme on three separate occasions, blurting out his objections to hand-slaps, gropes, and even food offerings. He finished the night by previewing his new album Rare Chandeliers for the first time with its architect The Alchemist spinning in the rear of the stage. By the end of the set, the entire crew was screaming for one more song, a fitting nightcap to an evening dominated by unchanneled and raw energy. But this was Bronson’s show, and he had other ideas. Breathing heavily, he dropped down into a seat on the edge of the stage. “No. FUCK! I’m fucking TIRED! We’re DONE!” And so we were.

CMJ 2012 RETROSPECTIVE Hair Soaked in PBR, Stereotypical Williamsburg Hipsters, and a Bloody Drumstick: My Concert Experiences of CMJ

by Alaric Powell

The Sub Pop showcase at the Knitting Factory was my first show of CMJ, and it was starting on a sour note. It was my first real night in New York City and I had been waiting in line for a half hour before I overheard the bouncer saying that the concert was sold out and that only people with CMJ passes were getting in. But the bouncer did say that as people left, they would let more in. So after going back to our lodgings, waiting for an hour, and then making my way back to the Knitting Factory, I managed to get a ticket. I missed the first two acts, but there were still four left, starting out with the indie-folk Poor Moon, which features two members of Fleet Foxes. While I cannot say I am a fan of the latter, Poor Moon was painfully dull and to call them ‘inoffensive’ would be beyond an understatement, especially considering the bands that performed after them. The one bright spot of their set was a (perhaps too) faithful cover of The Kinks’ “Sitting by the Riverside,” but the rest was unmemorable. Next was the band that drew me to the Knitting Factory that night: Metz, a post-hardcore band with noise rock elements. Their blurb on the venue’s website, which name dropped Nation of Ulysses, Mission of Burma, Oneida, NoMeansNo, and Public Image Ltd., may as well have been a love letter to me. They put on a hell of a show and sounded amazing, as I moshed to my heart’s content while getting pulverized by their feedback-drenched riffs. They played with virtually no lights to illuminate the stage, forcing the audience to focus on the music more than the performers. I made sure to grab a shirt from the singer at their merchandise desk and told them how amazing they were with multiple expletives. King Tuff were next, a garage rock band that featured members who had seemingly emerged from a portal to 1972, right down to the mustaches and shaggy hair. The band seemed to be adored by the audience, who were dancing and singing along to every song. It wasn’t quite my thing, but I could see why people enjoyed it. Pissed Jeans were the last act of the night, and even though they weren’t the best show I’ve ever seen (that honor belongs to ‘blackgaze’ (a mixture of black metal and shoegaze) band Deafheaven, who opened for Alcest in DC earlier this year) they were certainly the most memorable. This was partly because I had no clue what I was getting into, other than what I heard from a rather large man who told me to save a spot for him in the front row because Pissed Jeans were one of the best bands to see live. Their singer, Matt Korvette, walked onto the stage and took out a piece of paper, listing all the bands that were playing around New York at that time, ruthlessly mocking each one (getting an underwhelming amount of awkward chuckles) before launching the band into a post-hardcore frenzy. It seemed that the audience was too exhausted (and drunk) to mosh or dance like with the last two acts, which was a little disappointing. Early on, Korvette brought out boxes of pizza, telling the audience that “Sub Pop had given us this for before the show, but I think I thought of a better use,” before flinging the boxes out into the audience. The boxes continued to get thrown around in the audience and onto the stage, beginning the lobbing of just about anything between the band and

the audience. Their drummer threw a PBR into the audience in the middle of a song, dousing my hair in beer. Korvette and the audience continued to antagonize one another; the drunks would say how awful the band was, middle fingers raised high, while Korvette berated one audience member for his terrible baseball cap before putting it on himself. The drunks also kept trying to stage dive into no one, bloodying themselves and not caring at all. The real chaos began with the last song, when the band began going into a feedback-fuelled jam where their guitarist (Bradley Fry) used a slice of pizza from the boxes as a pick at one point, disintegrating with every thrash, before dropping their instruments and exiting the stage, leaving their drummer (Sean McGuinness) alone and a massive wall of never-ending feedback in their wake. McGuinness kept playing, keeping a steady 4/4 beat for nearly ten minutes, even after losing one of his drumsticks about three-fourths of the way into his impromptu solo. It sounded surprisingly fantastic, as McGuinness’ demented dance beat played alongside a reverberating and hypnotic wall of noise created by the feedback. As he played, drunks hurled more things onto the stage and people went on the stage to get their possessions that they threw. I went to grab my jacket that one guy threw up there, but not before screaming at McGuinness, who just glared at me as he maintained his beat. A photograph of my jacket lying next to the band’s bass guitar actually ended up on Brooklyn Vegan’s report of the show (so five bonus points to my indie cred there). The bassist from King Tuff came from the backstage at one point to play while on his knees, in the most clichéd rock star manner possible. The rest of the band returned, with Fry dismantling the drum kit piece by piece while McGuinness tried to keep playing. McGuinness eventually threw his remaining drumstick at Fry, and it bounced off him to come right to me. Korvette told us to rush the stage as a final farewell, at which point the bouncers were called in to throw the audience members back onto the floor and tell us to leave. I still have the drumstick, worn down so much that virtually the entire stick is splintering, and splattered with dried red drops of (what I assume to be) blood. Most of my other CMJ concert experiences couldn’t come close to Metz or Pissed Jeans. Thanks to virtually all the concerts in New York being 21+, I missed out on some of my favorite bands from this year, like Savages and Death Grips. For the most part, my other nights in New York were spent in modified warehouses, where the audiences consisted of the most stereotypical hipsters imaginable and the acts were either bland indie rock or uninteresting avant-garde. One notable exception was Circuit Des Yeux, an energetic trio featuring Haley Fohr on vocals and guitar, combining the hazy atmospheres of lo-fi and shoegaze, alongside energy and lyrics that reminded me of post-punk. They were anomalies that night, playing between a vaguely Middle Eastern drone duo and a brooding man doing experimental tape music, both of which were incredibly boring. Regardless of my luck for shows those other nights, Metz and Pissed Jeans delivered the punk rock jolt that kept me going through CMJ’s concerts and made my first full night in New York City one for the ages.

CMJ 2012 RETROSPECTIVE

The One Where I Hugged Blood Diamonds by Travis Carr Before I begin, let me just put some nasty rumors to rest... Yes, I did go to a show sponsored by Urban Outfitters. Yes, it was one of the best shows I’ve ever been to. No, I was not offered a modeling job for their winter catalogue. This Urban Outfitters-sponsored Tanlines and Blood Diamonds show was many things. It was free. It was at the top of a swanky hotel. It was responsible for us spending over $80 on drinks. But mainly it was one of the most unashamedly fun live music experiences I’ve had in recent memory. After locating the venue (Le Bain, part of the Standard Hotel in Manhattan’s Meatpacking District), meeting some nice ladies in line who were from Philadelphia and forced MNDR stickers on us, and being shuffled onto a massive elevator, we ended up on the 17th floor with a stunning view of the city laid out before us. DJ Sammy Slice (please, please, just forget his name; he was really good, I swear) warmed up the crowd before Blood Diamonds, imposing giant, pop producer genius, and arbiter of Grimes’ digits, silently took the stage to blast hits like “Phone Sex” and “Ritual.” Luckily for him, he was not able to start his set before we were able to spot him and introduce ourselves (i.e.: drunkenly tell him that we loved him). In between sets, we ventured upstairs to the astroturfed rooftop to get a better view of the city and eat crepes and lounge on the largest beanbags known to man and generally talk about how ridiculous the entire scenario was. Once Tanlines started, we rushed back down to join the throng of similarly wasted and sweaty twenty-somethings singing along to “Green Grass” and “All of Me” and jumping around like House of Pain had told them to. The crowd was into it, the band was into it, I was into it—it was as high energy a show as I’ve been to in a long time. Anyway, somehow the night ended with us accidentally ending up at the World Trade Center site at 5am and getting weirdly, drunkenly emotional. So all in all, I’d give it two thumbs up.

The best album of the semester has to be Swans’ The Seer, the monolithic double album from the (in)famous experimental rock/noise rock/ post-rock/??? outfit. The record is as heavy as it is vast in scope, almost like Godspeed You! Black Emperor if they were (unpopular opinion incoming) actually interesting. I saw them live earlier this year (you can even hear me screaming in between songs for the band to play louder in a Pitchfork documentary of the band, which got a chuckle from Michael Gira) and they take this fantastic album to another dimension. Other favorites from this semester include experimental hip-hop trio Death Grips’ No Love Deep Web, Dirty Projectors’ Swing Lo Magellan, Metz’s self-titled, and Savages’ I Am Here EP. My choice for favorite track is “Artificial Death in the West,” by Death Grips. Zach Hill’s quietly intricate drums, the absolutely stunning coldwave-like synthesizers, and MC Ride’s abstract (yet captivating) lyrics all come together to form their best song yet.

Alaric Powell

Will Barnes The only flaw in the new Tame Impala album, Lonerism, is that it came too late for summer. The work is presented in such a sunstroked haze, down to the album that it seems a shame I wasn’t able to listen to it during a July sunset. Not so for Bat For Lashes’s The Haunted Man, whose wistful music is a perfect Autumnal offering. There is both chill and warmth in Natasha Khan’s voice, and the instrumentation adapts accordingly. The recent cold snap, meanwhile, has made it seem not unduly premeditative that Sufjan Stevens’s Silver & Gold Christmas compilation should arrive to us now, offering both draws of the holiday: a consumerist bounty (58 tracks!) and a deeper emotional intimacy.

Standouts From This

Semester

My album picks of the semester reflect my continued disillusionment with the state of modern music and the banality of what most of my favorite genres seem to have become. With the exception of Panopticon’s incredible bluegrass/black metal hybrid Kentucky, nothing I heard this year was really unique or new. Converge continued their reign as the kings of loudness with All We Love We Leave Behind, and Demonic Death Judge’s Skygods is a decent take on the same kind of music I’ve been listening to for years. I can’t say for sure if it’s the music, or if it’s just me, but I’m waiting for the next big thing to drop – maybe 2013 will be the year.

Gareth Bk

Is Music Even Good? by Caitlin Goldblatt

Consuming music is a bit like watching Forrest Gump wade through the past into the present, as his experiences provide iconic images that reflect the tension evident in societal change. Music is an amorphous and living medium; it considers its past and present while it envisions1 and impacts its future even as we experience it in our present. With the full canon of musical expression laid at my feet in every possible way, from albums themselves to remastered tracks to music videos to interviews to retrospective documentaries to whatever the guy I’m seeing is listening to2, I feel like my opinions have already been set for me. Sometimes, especially in the world of college radio3, there is a divide between those music connoisseurs who might prefer to engage with older music and those who enjoy the constant discovery of new genres, artists, and tracks. As one of the former, I’ve found myself condescending to the latter, with their seemingly endless stream of increasingly obscure and specific genres4. That said, how arrogant must the moniker of “post-punk” have sounded when The Sex Pistols were still performing live5? How many different sub-genres of metal are there? It might be preferable to wade through the shitty stuff while maintaining an ear for the real goods, rather than merely selecting from the relative dearth of music that fans of decades past upheld over their epoch’s own version of bullshit. Yeah, it’s really difficult for me to show you the five albums from 1985 that I deem most important when I’ve already been told to listen to them; which genius fans pulled Tupac Shakur out of being a second-string rapper6 and helped his record and ticket sales so much that he became 1

Sometimes, but usually accidentally. This is great if he’s really into The Cramps and Ghostface, always has Springsteen bootlegs, and leaves you his VHS collection with a bunch of Kurosawa and old Twilight Zone (!!!), but should be referred to as aural asphyxiation if he 1) makes you listen to Drake with him and then 2) dumps you. Additionally, I hate chillwave explicitly because I wanted to slap an ex of mine every time he sortadanced to it in his car in between ignoring me and sorta-trying to convince me to take an enema for him. I should probably pop a disclaimer in here, while I’m at it: I’m probably going to mention my exes a lot in this, though neither by name nor identifying features. I don’t know about you, but my memories sort of exist in well-soundtracked montages and I’m one of those insecure chicks who hasn’t been meaningfully single since I got on the Pill, so this is what you get. 3 Which, for those of you who are feeling sentimental and need to snap out of it, sounds sort of like the remains of human language after nuclear fallout has left a few of us with nothing but cockroaches to talk to for roughly a millennium. 4 I’m an asshole. 5 I guess Joy Division wasn’t that arrogant given that, at the time, the only thing that separated their punk presentation from post-punk was post-production. 6 Spoiler alert: I think the East Coast won that whole battle... Or maybe the Midwest, via Kanye and Eminem. 2

an icon? Does anyone even remember Craig Mack, who Sean Combs shafted in order to promote Biggie7? Would The Hold Steady have existed without The Replacements8? Did it even matter that Pavement wasn’t especially popular until a few of their fans started similar bands9? It is a privilege to live inside of a musical moment in which you’ll actually hear all the smaller bands and artists who will be cast aside in deference to the favorites, so savor that bullshit now, before everyone forgets about Neon Indian and your adopted hipster children are stuck thinking Beach House was the only band of its kind10. It’s not that I’m advocating parroting any music publication or sacrificing your first-born children to Metacritic11; listening in the moment might seem trendy, but it’s really more about holding onto the new before history rates it. Your scene, your ears, and your judgment should matter most. So, why should you care? Because music is that amorphous thing that makes your parties, your car rides, and your orgasms better. Music matters because it’s unassailably good, so stop snarking and get down to the business of putting on your disco garms and wondering what Cocteau Twins could do to your lady/gent business if their mouths can make your ears feel that good. 7

I didn’t even know who this guy was until Alex Cousins, WCWM’s Hip-Hop Director, told me about him six months ago; and I love hip-hop history. 8 No. 9 Pavement didn’t exactly suck, but they (correctly) called out Green Day as opportunists about a decade before the latter actually sold out, so I mostly consider them to be bitchy oracles upheld by inexplicable 90’s nostalgia on the part of my generation. 10 Or maybe no one will remember chillwave because it will be rebranded under nu-disco and Passion Pit will rule over the genre like an unflinching, rolling Katamari ball. But more on my weird art fascism later. 11 Now there’s an alternative to abortion.

SO YOU WANT TO BE KVLT:

A BLACK METAL PRIMER by Gareth Bk

My teenage love for black metal came from long nights sitting alone in my room, playing video games or finishing calculus homework to a soundtrack of blast beats and tremolo riffs. Music has always had a strong element of escapism for me, and the otherworldly sound of black metal was the ultimate aphrodisiac against the outside world. Thankfully, it’s possible to explore black metal without being a hormonal teenager, and this article will shed some light on a very dark subject. Any metal fan worth his or her salt will tell you that Bathory was the first black metal band that mattered – Venom and Celtic Frost get credit too, Essential Albums: but it was one Swedish musician named Quorthon who really changed the Bathory – The Return of world. Rooted in thrash and fueled by a desire to rebel against the stagnation the Darkness and Evil of popular metal music, Bathory and their contemporaries took extreme metal Venom – Black Metal and turned it into a fast, loud, and dirty new form. This was the “first wave” Celtic Frost – Morbid Tales and albums like Bathory’s The Return and Venom’s Black Metal took the metal Von – Satanic world by storm. Bathory would later go on to develop “Viking metal” and take Root – Zjevení its sound in a new direction, but the damage had been done – black metal was a recognized subgenre with unlimited room to grow. In 1993 Kristian “Varg” Vikernes, bassist for Mayhem and sole member of Burzum, stabbed fellow Mayhem member Øystein “Euronymous” Aarseth to death. A year earlier Vikernes burned down a 12th century church and used a photo of the burnt shell as an album cover. Two years before that, Mayhem’s Burzum – Hvis lyset tar vocalist Dead blew his head off with a shotgun; Euronymous reportedly made oss bits of his skull into necklaces. This was the context of the second wave of black Mayhem – De Mysteriis metal – a social circle steeped in misanthropy and violence, based in Norway Dom Sathanas and united by belief in Europe’s pagan traditions. Musically, these bands took Emperor – In the Nightthe style pioneered during the first wave and matured it into a unique form that side Eclipse incorporated atmospheric elements into the harsh metal core. Lyrics focused Darkthrone – Transylvaon death, paganism, anti-Christianity, and occasionally The Lord of the Rings; nian Hunger production values were nonexistent. The second wave was an inherently Immortal – Pure Holorebellious movement, composed of young musicians dissatisfied with popular caust music and the social environment they grew up in. For people like Vikernes, black metal was a lifestyle, one that would have drastic consequences for both the music itself and the perception of the people who chose to play it. The scene quickly expanded worldwide and set the stage for a new set of musicians to take black metal in new and exciting directions. It is useful to call the era of black metal following the Norwegian explosion a “third wave”, although its only unifying characteristics are its

global character and the experimentation many bands exhibited in their sound. Copycat bands following the Norwegian style sprung up, and within different geographic regions distinct sounds arose. It is impossible to capture the entirety of black metal in the mid-1990s here, but some especially important patterns appear: the Les Légions Noires collective and its counterparts in France, the growth of the genre in the United States, and groups from disparate scenes worldwide who innovated the genre in unique ways. Emperor, veterans of the second wave, took their music in a symphonic direction; Irish bands like Primordial infused elements of folk music; Viking metal came into its own following Bathory’s Blood Fire Death; doom metal and black metal began influencing each other to create “blackened doom.” Despite proclamations of the death of the genre following both the first and second waves, black metal was here to stay. Modern black metal has continued along the same track of innovation and experimentation seen in the 1990s. Some bands abandoned the genre entirely and pursued new musical paths (Norway’s Ulver transitioned to making ambient electronic) and some have created “avant-garde” sounds (Arcturus, Ved Buens Ende, Fleurety, and Agalloch, to name a few). The United States black metal scene came into its own and has hit mainstream publications (especially Pitchfork). Members of second wave bands have branched out into other projects and solo records. A notable trend that began in the second wave is National Socialist Black Metal, which (following the quasi-fascist views of people like Vikernes) use black metal as a platform for pro-Nazi expression, and have given the genre a particularly bad rap among some observers. It is debatable whether black metal has surpassed its relevance as a genre, but it is guaranteed that practitioners of the art will continue to create music that hearkens back to its glory days while innovating the genre in unpredictable ways.

Blut Aus Nord – The Work Which Transforms God Katatonia – Brave Murder Day Primordial – Imrama Enslaved – Frost Emperor – Anthems to the Welkin at Dusk

Arcturus – The Sham Mirrors Leviathan – The Tenth Sub Level of Suicide Agalloch – Pale Folklore Alcest – Le Secret Mirrorthrone – Carriers of Dust

Lana Del Rey: Paradise EP by Caroline Creasey

Lana Del Rey’s pop ballad “Video Games” gained instant acclaim last year as her homemade music video for the track began making its rounds on the internet. She captivated fans all over the world with her impressive vocal range, jaded lyrics, and old Hollywood glamour. A few months later, Del Rey’s popularity peaked with the release of her first studio album, Born to Die, which featured three more promising singles: “Born to Die,” “National Anthem,” and “Summertime Sadness.” With this in mind, I had high hopes for her follow-up EP, Paradise. While Paradise is a cohesive and consistent effort, the majority of the tracks are underwhelming, with “Ride” and “Blue Velvet” being the two exceptions. The former was cowritten by Justin Parker, the man behind the melodramatic single “Born to Die,” and Emile Haynie, a producer who has worked with the likes of Kid Cudi, Lil Wayne, and Kanye West. As with “Video Games,” “Ride” owes much of its popularity to its accompanying music video, which consists of shots of the perpetually doe-eyed and pouty-lipped singer crooning to the camera while she walks the streets waiting for greasy-haired bikers to pick her up. These are juxtaposed with shots worthy of an Urban Outfitters ad campaign in which Del Rey wanders through the desert wrapping herself in an American flag and drunkenly prancing around a bonfire in a Native American headdress. She proclaims over and over (and over) that she “just ride[s]” rather than attempts to deal with the apparently insurmountable emotional obstacles she faces. “Ride” epitomizes the Lana Del Rey fans know and love, rife with apathetic, self-destructive tendencies, clichés of bygone eras, and the glorification of danger and spontaneity. “Blue Velvet,” the other standout track from Paradise, is a cover of a 1950s R&B song by The Clovers. It showcases the old-fashioned, dramatic vocals that first made Del Rey famous and boasts a soaring melody which fits perfectly with Del Rey’s self-indulgent, over-the-top image. Unfortunately, the remainder of the tracks on Paradise blend together due to their similar structure; they begin as slow ballads that eventually pick up some speed just as the three minute mark passes, after which the song begins to wind down. Del Rey never falters from her sultry, all-American persona, singing “Elvis is my daddy/Marilyn’s my mother/Jesus is my bestest friend” on “Body Electric” and “Be young, be dope, be proud/Like an American” on “American.” Though Del Rey’s lyrics consistently gravitate towards an indifferent extolment of sex, drugs, and glamour, the caliber of her writing falls short when she rhymes lines like “Drugs, suck it up/like Vanilla Ice is” with “Don’t treat me rough/ treat me really nice-is” on “Cola.” All things considered, Del Rey is a talented singer and Paradise isn’t a bad EP, but it’s nothing we haven’t heard before.

Crystal Castles: (III) by Arthi Aravind

With a sound like an air raid siren, Crystal Castles’ third album, (III), launches into its first single, “Plague,” whose anthemic sound is like a sense of relief and anticipation for fans listening: it’s here, it’s finally here, and there’s forty more minutes of it. It’s truly a Crystal Castles signature piece, with frontwoman Alice Glass’s pained and ethereal cries and a beat that prepares you for dancing to the rest of the album. The song fades into “Kerosene,” whose hip hop beats and chopped up vocal samples are something new for the band. The morbid lyrics echo the sentiments Glass has discussed in interviews, reflecting her jadedness: “I’ll protect you from / all the things I’ve seen.” “Wrath of God” opens with an innocent music box tune, which quickly gives way to a trance-like chorus. The pounding pulse and fuzzy synths are like an even more polished version of their music. Glass has said in interviews that they didn’t intend to stray from their signature sound, so they’ve delivered more of the same technqiues which characterize their past two albums. However, “Affection” continues the style started with “Kerosene,” and plays out almost like a parody of Top 40 music, with more hip hop beats, distorted witch house-derived vocals, and a curious synth line in the back. “Pale Flesh” brings back some of the harshness of their first album, mixing needlelike synths with punchy percussion, but in a more accessible way. The album almost sounds too accessible though, and fans of the band’s original harsh chiptune sound may be disappointed. “Sad Eyes” was the third single released, with an urgent melody, higher tempo, and trancey lushness. In case hardcore fans are upset that the new album might be too tame, “Insulin” brings back an almost unlistenable dissonance, with a difficult to follow beat and an equally difficult melody. It could be a cut from their first album, or a demo from years ago. “Transgender” and “Violent Youth” are two of my favorites from this album because of their melodies, but both are also ready for the dance floor. The loopy synths and excited percussion keep the energy up. “Telepath” is a solid instrumental, but “Mercenary”’s sinister sound is more interesting, making good use of three-dimensional sound space, which is unlike Crystal Castles’ typical lushness. “Child I Will Hurt You” isn’t danceable at all, being a ballad. Even though Crystal Castles isn’t new to ballads, they haven’t showcased any that they’ve made, and placing this gorgeous song at the end is a notable touch. It brings back the lullaby delicacy of the notes in “Wrath of God” and is almost cinematic. Even though I think (II) is going to be the peak of Crystal Castles’ career, I’m glad that (III) is a worthy sequel. It lacks some of the energy and raw edginess of (II), perhaps because it doesn’t have the punk-like abrasiveness that lends it that energy, but will please fans and produce an excellent live show (bolstered by the band’s showmanship) all the same.

WCWMFEST: A RETROSPECTIVE

by Will Barnes and Katie Wood

09/08/12: Pictureplane (W.B.): Don’t throw a barbeque if everyone at the barbeque is drunk and no one at the barbeque knows how to cook meat. On the other hand, if you measure the quality of a barbeque by how drunk people get, the pre-concert cookout was a raging success. I ate a lot of the food, though disgusted by the taste, because this is the kind of man I am. At Travis’s bequest, I began my drinking with one of the Bud Light Limes he’d brought, and followed it up with I think whiskey, mixed into a Food Lion-brand cola can. Partial nudity was the dress code, in order to display various temporary tattoos of red, white and blue; for it was a day dedicated to America, a hot summer evening before a school football game, a bloody national anniversary, and a concert at Matoaka Lake. Pictureplane was not impressed with our shindig when he came upon us in John’s backyard. In an act of high treason, he and Todd decided to disembark from the barbeque and tour Colonial Williamsburg instead. A tragic mistake, for how can this great nation move forward if it neglects to look towards its future in favor of its past? In fact, we all failed to look towards the future in terms of weather forecasts, and the ingredients of our cookout were hastily relocated inside as storm clouds threatened war upon our land. The elect few of us brave enough to raise hell to the heavens in the form of middle fingers remained outside when the rain came, charging to victory via a soapy Slip n’ Slide, as Bruce Springsteen blared through defiantly open windows, and American flags bled off American bodies. I didn’t go to the concert that night, because I was all wet. (K.W.): Bewitched, I smash my way into Trinkle Hall. I see what I came for glinting on my right. I approach it. Over the bobbing heads of hundreds of mousy-haired twamps, I can just glimpse Pictureplane’s ghostly sway. Gleaming onstage, Travis Egedy’s skeletal presence feels like a gift from some industrial goth paradise. He is an alien DJ, transported here from a world of shiny inverted crosses and fingerless leather gloves. I’m infatuated, entranced, completely deifying the sound, and dancing haphazardly. Halfway through “Post Physical,” I am pissed off by the group of people infringing on my dance space. Specifically, I am pissed off by their hats (backwards and tasteless) and I am pissed off by their girlfriends’ butts. Collectively, they are the worst. “You’re the worst,” I shout toward them. “You’re the worst!” one yells over his shoulder. This makes me feel okay. I smile and high five him. After the set, I spot Todd. “Spotted,” I say to him. We go downstairs to meet up with Travis. Now that he is “Travis” and not “omg Pictureplane,” I can’t think of a damn thing to say, so I keep quiet and stare at his pentagram leggings. Travis gives me a Pictureplane poster he made that features an image of a nude woman wearing a blindfold and COUM transmissions text. I keep Travis and his suitcase company in the elevator. The suitcase has “BE NICE” spray painted on the top side. “That’s good advice,” I note. “It’s gotten me far,” Travis replies. We share a smile.

(W.B.): After the concert, of which I remember a leather jacket worn by the lead singer, and some form of music being played, we advanced to the party being held on Indian Springs street, in honor of Aaron Carter’s lost weekend. The mixed drink being served there, Kool-Aid and gin I think, proved atrociously delicious. The screened-in porch out back, smoky as a closed cooking grill, was packed with the noise of a microcosmic pocket party, its participants seemingly unaware of the deceitful switch in decibel that ‘inside’ and ‘outside’ voices take after a certain point in time, both in the evening and in a person’s life. I was the only person who saw the flashlight beams sweeping across the yard, caught in the net of the screen door. Quietly I crept inside, seeking haven at the source of danger, but it was no use: the police were at the front door. A slow wave of silence forced its way through the occupied rooms, with some difficulty. Loaded words had their intended effect—“police–bust–quiet”—yet there were ever ripples from the sea, laughter that ravished the solemnity of the crowd. It was the laughter of those who could not bear to look into the faces of those around them, to see the quiet attunedness and worry stamped upon the surrounding human geography. They could deal with no map that was not a treasure map, so they laughed and looked into their cups, where an orange pool grew shadowed as they lifted it to mask their eyes. I snuck into a closet until the cops left.

09/15/12: Outlands, Hoop Dreams (K.W.): My vision comes into focus. Something is happening on the bricks. There are several people nodding, bouncing on one heel, and clutching cans of PBR. They are looking at the stage, where the James Murphy impersonator croons too close to the microphone. The others on stage wave their instruments around disinterestedly. I lose interest, too.

(W.B.): It seems likely that the time Mirror Kisses began their performance at the Crust was more or less the same time that the remainder of Metafest 2012, the all-day festival put on by fledgling audio company Protones, was cancelled due to the threat of rain, some 45 minutes away in Hampton. This is the place that I was. I’d been booked to play at the festival, and at the time of the hypothetical Crust show I was on stage again, winding up cables with a crew of dissatisfied men who warded off the spectre of their approaching middle-aged years with teenage laughter. Because I’d performed, and awkwardly introduced myself, as Car Seat Headrest (CSH), the name they eventually decided to bestow upon me for common usage was ‘Cash.’ On the Metafest stage that I would eventually help break down, I learned several things, one of which was the assertion of masculinity that was apparently inherent in doing a solo act in a festival clearly catering to groups. Indeed, my testicles were the talk of the town after I opened the day’s festivities with reduced versions of a couple of my songs; the climax of this testosterocentric bildungsroman came when Shakespeare’s Ghozt opened his set by pointing at me and heralding, “This kid has balls!” After the show, I was tasked with helping break down the stage quickly, at the threat of rain. The sound guys taught me the correct method of wrapping cables–gently, with a loving touch–amidst much jovial haranguing, though they mostly lassoed only each other with their put-downs, me being the relative stranger. After closing up the stage, we ended up sitting in a communal circle of computer chairs in Michael Menichino’s possibly illegally lived-in warehouse property, as Cheeno counted up the money, ‘Cheeno’ being the organizer of the whole festival. I’ve never tasted such a refreshing beer as the one that was passed to me in that pow-wow of gentlemen. I spent the night on a couch quite as comfortable as any bed, sleeping adjacent to one of the sound men, who lived hours north of Hampton, in truth, a fellow outsider.

09/22/12: Mirror Kisses

(K.W.): Before the show, George points out that I totally copied Mirror Kisses’s flyer design. I remain unabashed about the deliberate theft—their vectorized pouts pair with the squarish text to capture their contradictory style. By “contradictory,” I mean that their masculinities surprise me—I want them to be fabulous, effervescent, colorful electro witch doctors. Here they are in tee shirts and trainers, talking about french fries and swamps. The show turns out to be wet. Drenched in drizzle and sweat, George sings to the crowd, for the crowd, in the crowd. The movements on all sides are sensual and distant—minimal contact, maximized presence. The crowd members dance fearlessly despite failing lights and fragile dispositions. Cold rain washes all the lipstick off all the faces, but our attachment to imitation ‘80s pop won’t rinse. Afterward, we all want hugs, blankets, and tea.

(W.B.): I wore new shoes to the panel; it was the first day of the season to feel like fall. I arrived early to see what seemed to be a human girl sitting in the front row, being friendzoned by three or four avidly casual fans. This was Kitty Pryde, digital phenomenon, and an apt choice for a journalism panel, existing mostly as a subject of conversation, rather than a living being. Indeed, she was pretty bad at living, particularly during the panel, where she sat at the table in her oversized sweatshirt, touched her face and hair with Kristen Stewart regularity, as if in need of reassurance of the presence of her own head, and spoke with Coriolanian hesitance, wary of any possible sincerity that might emerge from her cloaked bosom. Travis Morrison played Cominius to her Coriolanus, addressing questions with the confidence of a veteran interviewee, and eating a whole bag of candy presented to the panelists beforehand, as the comic book heroine shrunk into a mass of sweatshirt and hair fibers, and was ironic. I walked home in new weather, in new shoes, and started work on a new song. The cold snap continued the next day, perhaps with a bit of rain, which drove the concert at the Crust inside. I’d been teamed up with the crew from Indian Springs, where we’d come from a drunk viewing of The Parent Trap (and where, unfortunately, Kitty Pryde could not be convinced to spend the night), but I split off from them when they entered the Crust; the oppressive wall of sound building up inside the restaurant, and released in a rush whenever anyone opened the door, proved too antagonistic for me to take a step inside. I went home instead, and went to bed at around midnight. After a long time, I was woken by my roommate entering the threshold, who asked me politely if I would get out so he could fuck the girl he’d brought with him. I declined, so he made out with her on our doorstep instead. Enemy in thine own home. I felt sympathetic towards ghosts. (K.W.): Walking into the Crust is walking into a wall of noise. There is shoving, and some of it is unpleasant. I love it, I shove it. During the Sonic Youth cover, the badass girl in the boots lies down next to the loose mosh with her bass on top of her. I like her bangs. The guitarist refused to turn his amp volume down at the beginning of the show. Now, faceless behind his hair-mop, he jabs the head of his Fender into my hip. My hip catches it and spins him back around. He lifts the axe above his head and swings it down to crash onto the cement floor. Once, twice, oh, neck broken. The set is definitely done. I grab the guitar’s head from behind him as he picks up the splintered pieces: my night’s trophy.

09/27/12: Modern Journalism Panel feat. Travis Morrison and Kitty Pryde 09/28/12: Bleeding Rainbow 09/29/12: Digging Up Virgins, Laura Stevenson and the Cans 17

10/06/12: Car Seat Headrest, Suburban Living, Mac Demarco (W.B.): With our drummer out of town on grave business, I took up the sticks myself for our October performance. But my beats proved un-fresh, and I felt discouraged trying to pick up lost time and looking out into the dark abyss of the audience, that divisive terminating line created by the bright stage lights, isolating us in vision. My spirits revived, however, when Mac Demarco himself approached me afterwards to tell me he’d enjoyed the show, and I clumsily gave him both the CSH albums I had with me. Elaine then invited me to Travis’s car, where we toasted on whipped cream vodka and orange juice, perhaps my favorite drink of the year. After that, my role within the body of the concert became much blurrier—I ended up working at the merch table at one point?—but I did manage to catch a good bit of Mac Demarco and his band, also known, collectively, as Mac Demarco, as well they should, for they played with a unified energy and purpose that was invigorating. With nowhere else to stay, they were obliged to spend the night at Indian Springs; when I found them sitting in the Wawa parking lot alone after the show, I gave them Elaine’s phone number. (K.W.): “Yeah… just ignore that lipstick stuff,” Mac says as he hands me his CD. It’s not until after the show that I notice the glamor shots of him, lips puckered, smeared across the album’s back cover. His band’s presence is that of 17-year-old boys on a road trip to the beach: they take turns making jokes about farts and butts and blow jobs while trading baseball caps and sips of High Life. “This one’s called ‘Rock and Roll Night Club,’ cause it’s about that kinda bullsheeeee.” Mac tosses his words out like a backhanded compliment and gets down on his knees to solo. “Y’all got one night to chill. So let’s dance!” he advises. I agree; I dance.

10/10/12: Car Seat Headrest, Dent May

(W.B.): This was more lowkey than usual, being on a Wednesday night, but both bands performed admirably – though I quickly found that the current ending to our song ‘Kitty Pryde’ would have to be scrapped and rewritten. Dent May, another person-band entity, sent Todd to the liquor store for whiskey before the show; perhaps this contributed to the brown, smoky glow of his performance. I ate too much free pizza. (K.W.): Dent May feels like a Wednesday. He does a silly tip-toe dance and pushes his spectacles up his nose as he sings. His bassist is chill—a bear of a man with a Rastafarian-striped terrycloth armband and fluffed-up smokey cloud hair. All the members of Car Seat Headrest pile up on the Crust patio’s couches to doze off like dirty, sleepy puppies. A strange, cute Wednesday.

10/26/12: Bear In Heaven (W.B.): Bear In Heaven narrowly avoided becoming Bear In Jail, as the cops succeeded in shutting down the show about halfway through the set. The Crust had chosen to hold it outside, and the noise curfew was at 11:00, long before the concert was due to finish. Indeed, the hands of the law seemed to be closing down upon us the next night when John’s Halloween party achieved the status of ‘busted,’ and he and his roommates were given a court date. John must have proved quite a sight in dealing with the police, dressed, as he was, in the robes of Lady Virtus, the conquering hero on the Virginia state flag. With The State of Virginia vs. The State of Virginia court case now looming in the immediate future, a money jar was passed around for the inevitable fine.

11/03/12: Caleb Groh, Invisible Hand (W.B.): Invisible Hand was truly invisible to me, as I missed the concert for a performance of Hamlet. The supreme narrative of uncontrollable descent towards entropy was performed admirably, to be sure—yet my enjoyment of Ophelia’s scenes were somewhat marred by the fact that the actress who portrayed her had poured alcohol on my face the night before, at the party we’d both attended. She was sitting on someone’s shoulders, screaming for the crowd to worship her, when some of her drink managed to get in my eye. We’d gone there from Indian Springs, where we’d had to stay bundled up inside, due to the heater breaking down. The residents wondered who should take responsibility for acting on the problem, and decided it was not them. Empty bottles covered the coffee table, making it hard to put our new ones down. I was happy just to not be in my own room, where my roommate had recently voiced to me some criticisms about my sleeping habits that I had trouble sleeping with. Unwelcome at home, we set out for somewhere that wasn’t. We ended up finding it in the Food Lion parking lot, where John vomited all over the side of Todd’s car as The Rapture’s “It Takes Time To Be A Man” played on the stereo. God, I love that song! (K.W.): I spent this night at the Meridian with three new friends instead of going to the concert. One of them, Jonah, is homeless by choice and a talented seamstress. “We’re all just doing our best,” he says, and makes a stitch. I draw a picture while the three converse about poetry, Ohio, and child-rearing. “Why would you treat a child different from any other human being?” I conjecture blindly. Jonah appreciates the question and hands me a 24”x12” piece of fabric. I take it. It feels light and stiff, like starchy linen. It is hand painted in uneven shades of sandy peach and lavender. Jonah tells us about how he walked from Maine to New Jersey along the beach. “Lots of sleeping under the stars,” he says wistfully.

11/17/12: Digging Up Virgins, Tough Luck (W.B.): Everything comes back home eventually. The last WCWMFest show (the last Crust show in the foreseeable future, in fact, for the restaurant cancelled the remainder of the festival due to its drain on funds, and allowed this final show only because the bands agreed to play for a pittance) consisted of two W&M alum bands, the strength of whose music, in combination with a nice beer buzz, kept us warm in the cold outdoors. That’s all you can really ask for at a concert. This was followed by a birthday party for Travis and Blair, pilgrim-themed for the coming holiday, one final shout of arrival. The mixed drink was orange juice, Food Lion-brand 7-Up, and gin. I woke up this morning with a glitter cross across my chest, so I think I had a good time. If anyone finds a house key, please let Travis know; he can’t get back in without it. (K.W.): Life’s a beach: wear it!