Arlen Gun Club – Kickflip | Single Review

One of my favorite songs of all time is “Little Acorns” by The White Stripes. When I first heard Elephant I was only ten years old, and that record quickly became the foundation for my pre-teen musical taste. Elephant provided me a foray into blues, garage rock, folk, country, and complicated in-law relationships, among other things. Still, amongst the 50-minutes of this near-perfect alternative rock record, one of the moments I remember responding to most viscerally as a ten-year-old was the spoken-word intro to “Little Acorns.”

Sure, the song itself shreds and is packed with punchy, fuzzed-out guitar, but in 2003 I’d never ever heard spoken word used on a record in this way, and it blew my ten-year-old mind. It has to have a deeper meaning, right? I read so deeply into that short story of a woman persevering through strife that I ended up internalizing it more than I probably even realize. The fact that this story was followed by a heavy-as-shit riff was just a bonus.

This idolization of persistence is why I’ve found Arlen Gun Club to be such a compelling project. Formed from the ashes of the recently-dissolved emo project Vermont, Arlen Gun Club rapidly transformed from a one-off side project with “Rosary” to a full-time creative outlet with Fresh Face earlier this year. Now the group has released “Kickflip,” the first song they penned after the release of that debut EP.

I’ll admit the novelty of “quarantine song” has worn off quite quickly and never seemed that appealing in the first place. Still, some artists like Charli XCX have managed to tackle the subject of quarantine both tactfully and artfully. Ultimately, songs about feeling lonely and disconnected a dime a dozen, but there’s no denying that’s an accurate reflection of where we are as a society right now.

Arlen Gun Club seems to be adding their name to this list, creating the elusive “quarantine song that’s actually interesting.” While it still touches on the topics of community and missing your friends, what makes “Kickflip” unique from other quarantine songs is that it manages to capture the sense of restlessness and pent-up energy that’s a byproduct of being sequestered inside for so long. It’s about being lonely and stir-crazy, which resonates with me way more than “I miss my friends” because, honestly, all my friends live in other cities right now anyway. 

While loneliness is an undeniable factor of our lives right now, my biggest takeaway from the last eight months has been frustration. Frustration at our government for failing us so spectacularly. Frustration at my fellow countryman for selfishly choosing their own pleasure over the greater good. Frustration at how blatantly the ruling class is willing to use and discard workers that they as deem “essential.”

That sense of rage and frustration only goes so far. Some days I do feel lonely or lost and try my best to distract my brain from the looming sense of existential dread. Other days, I drink too much coffee, spend too much time on Twitter, and end up getting a weird, uncontrollable burst of energy that I can’t safely expend on anything. I can’t go out with friends, I can’t go to shows, I can’t even work out (never thought I’d miss that one, to be honest). 

I guess if anything, it’s nice to have “Kickflip” here to remind us that there are some hobbies out there we can still pour this energy into. It’s both a reflection and an affirmation that quarantine isn’t just about feeling sad, beat-down, and dejected, but sometimes it is just this weird burst of mental or physical energy that needs to come out in one way or another. It’s a reminder that sometimes the weather outside is beautiful, and that’s enough because that’s all we have.

Fleet Foxes – Shore | Album Review

I hate to start a review off with an “I told you so,” but… I called it. Back in 2017, I wrote about Fleet Foxes’ then-recent album Crack-up and awarded it the accolade of “Album I Feel Like I Will Adore In A Few Years.” At that time, even after dozens of listens, I was still lukewarm on the band’s third album, but I could tell there was something about the collection of songs that hadn’t yet revealed itself to me. Now, three years later, I can unequivocally say that I was correct, and Crack-Up sits alongside the band’s first two records for me as part of a pristine trifecta of classic folk albums. 

Back in 2017, just two months after the release of Crack-up, Fleet Foxes lead singer Robin Pecknold posted a photo of a mic along with the cryptic caption of “IV x 'XX,” implying their fourth release was already in the works. While I (and many other indieheads) hypothesized the band would pull a Future / Hndrxx on us, that quick succession of releases never came to fruition back in 2017. 

I tucked that Instagram post away in my brain, and that’s partially why the surprise announcement of an imminent Fleet Foxes album back in September wasn’t too shocking for me. While I love a good surprise release, I’d been waiting for (and anticipating) this record for nearly three years, so in a way, this was the one thing in 2020 I have actually been prepared for. While Shore is a fantastic collection of more autumnal-flavored Fleet Foxes songs, I left my first listen (and second listen, and almost every subsequent listen) severely underwhelmed. 

There are a few possible culprits for this disappointment (one of them surely being three years of build-up and anticipation), but I’m genuinely hoping this isn’t just an “okay” album. I’m writing this as a way of grappling with my thoughts and criticisms because Fleet Foxes are very near and dear to me, yet this album feels distant and emotionally unattainable. I’m hoping this is just a case of history repeating itself the same way that I came around Crack-up, but some glaring holes on this record lead me to believe it will have a more challenging time growing on me. 

Once again, don’t get me wrong, I like Shore quite a bit; there are some all-time great Fleet Foxes tracks in here, however, the first word that comes to mind when describing the album would be “flavorless.” When I finish the record, I find myself having quite enjoyed it, but I also couldn’t tell you more than any two specific moments from the 54 minutes of music I had just taken in. This is hard as a long-time fan, and (from my perspective) negatively impacts the band’s legacy only because their discography to this point was near-perfect. So as of right now, Shore feels more like a fresh bruise that’s tarnishing a once-pristine record. 

Part of this comes down to seasonality. I’m someone who already tends to project ancillary layers onto an album’s release: the time of year, my mental state, my recent experiences, random information about the band, etc. So when a band like Fleet Foxes goes out of their way to put out an album on the first day of autumn, I’d naturally assume that it’s their “fall” album with a big capital F and a trail of vibrant, crunchy leaves in-tow. 

While Fleet Foxes felt like a mossy (and occasionally snow-covered) post-winter campground, Helplessness Blues felt like an energetic hike under blue skies on the first day of spring. Meanwhile, Crack-up felt very much like a “peak summer” album, a record that encapsulates the sweltering days, the scattered feelings, and the rust-covered death rattles of August. While the band’s other albums evoke such strong seasonal feelings in me (both projected and intended), Shore is just… there.

The funny thing is, for the most part, the release dates of these albums line up with those feelings I just described. And the band made such a big presentation out of Shore premiering on the autumnal equinox (down to the minute), I expected this record would have been a bit more… cozy? Ultimately, Shore is about as cozy and welcoming as any other Fleet Foxes record, but it does not feel particularly ~fall~ to me. 

The second (and bigger) issue with Shore is the songs. The album opens fantastically with “Wading In Waist-High Water,” a brilliant and picturesque welcome party helmed by a guest singer Uwade Akhere. From there, the band transitions seamlessly into “Sunblind,” a fast-paced piano-adorned track with some attention-grabbing builds and swirling, ethereal background vocals. The band then hits us with “Can I Believe You,” a towering anthem with a chorus that makes you wanna belt and a melody that becomes catchy within a matter of seconds. The decision to launch straight into the chorus on this song is not lost on me because it might be the best the band has ever written. 

Everything is trending upward at this point in the tracklist; three songs deep, and they’ve all been hits that sound unlike anything the band has done before. On my first listen, I found myself thinking, ‘this might be the best Fleet Foxes record of all time,’ then the whole thing comes crashing down. I’ll admit I’m being overly-dramatic because the record never really dips below a “pleasant listen,” but the problem is that it also never reaches the peaks of these early songs ever again. 

“Jara” is “Helplessness Blues”-light, and it’s here where the record begins to feel like Fleet Foxes merely going through the motions. “Featherweight” finds Pecknold stuck in his high register as Moon Shaped Pool keys dance and twinkle around him… though not to a particularly compelling end. Frustratingly, “A Long Way To The Past” has an almost identical chord progression to “Can I Believe You,” which, coming only three tracks later, just makes me want to rewind to that song so I can hear a better version of this instrumental. I am literally able to sing “can I believe you” over the first few seconds of this song, and it fits perfectly. It’s bizarre. 

Aside from these by-the-numbers tracks, there are too many slow songs that don’t arrive at a satisfying emotional payoff. “For A Week or Two” is a slow, plodding piano ballad, and “I’m Not My Season” just kind of unfurls and lays there. Again, neither of these songs bad, they just don’t grab me like any other Fleet Foxes ballad ever has. I feel no connection to the lyrics, the instrumentals are bare, and they don’t even end in a cool way; they just kind of slowly stop as if the band is putting themselves to sleep. 

Fleet Foxes also echo some of their folky indie rock contemporaries later in the tracklist. “Going-to-the-sun Road” has some incredible 22, A Million-like hornwork and an instrumental where restraint pays off because the group finally lets another instrument shine. Meanwhile, “Cradling Mother, Cradling Woman” is cool and should appeal to me because it sounds exactly like something off Sufjan Stevens’ Illinois, but ends up feeling not very Fleet Foxes because of it. 

The band undeniably sticks the landing on “Shore,” an ultimate slow build a-la “Blue Spotted Tail” or even “Innocent Son,” where Pecknold gently guides the listener with the softest, most precious singing he can muster. Accompanied by a piano, Pecknold is eventually joined by other instruments as the track builds to one bright and uplifting swell as if forming a heavenly procession. It’s stark, it’s haunting, and it’s beautiful, but aside from sending us off on a lovely note, this song doesn’t pull enough weight to persuade me that the album as a whole is complete. 

So Shore starts strong and ends strong, but maaaan those songs in the middle drag. They blur together, they plod along, and they leave me wanting anything else. By the time the album wraps up, I’m left remembering two things: the chorus to“Can I Believe You” and the subversion of expectations opening with a guest vocalist. Shore is Fleet Foxes, that’s for sure; it’s laid-back, choral, and woody… but it almost feels as if it’s only those things. I see none of the innovative, jaw-dropping arrangements found on Fleet Foxes, I see none of the conceptuality or ambition deployed on Helplessness Blues, and I see none of the experimentation or subtlety used on Crack-up. 

Shore is inoffensive; it could soundtrack afternoon book readings, long drives through the mountains, and Instagram-ready millennial brunches. Shore does not command attention, it does not linger with you, and it does not breakthrough. Perhaps most disappointing of all, unlike Crack-up, I feel as if there’s not nearly as much to dig into on this record, so I don’t even have the same confidence or optimism that Shore will “reveal itself” to me in time.

Shore is a Fleet Foxes album, which means it’s a solid listen and a compelling folk album at the very least. But Shore is also a Fleet Foxes album, which means I come into it expecting nothing less than the stellar songwriting and instrumentation found up to this point throughout their decade-plus career. This record isn’t bad, it’s just disappointing and straightforward. It’s only bad in the context of Fleet Foxes, and that makes me disappointed. Shore feels like Fleet Foxes for the sake of Fleet Foxes, and sadly, that’s not reason enough to exist.

Knope – Broken Couch | Track Premiere

You know what would sound great right now? A gig. As of today, I am 179 days without a concert, and there’s nothing I want more than to be packed into a sweaty basement drinking cheap beer and screaming along to songs that I love with dozens of other fans. I miss tipping $5 at the door, I miss the comforting sight of people smoking on a porch, I miss coming home with armfuls of new t-shirts that no one at my day job will understand… hell, I even miss my earplugs. 

While we’re still a ways away from any of these feelings returning, we’re lucky to have a new Knope song that captures the energy of a gig better than anything I’ve heard over the course of quarantine. 

Following up their excellent collaboration with Kicksie back in January, “Broken Couch” is the first single off the band’s upcoming EP An Exercise In Patience. Beginning with a thrashing volley of guitar, bass, and drums, I can practically see the pit opening up within the first few seconds of this song. If I close my eyes, I can almost feel the hands on my back as if I’m in someone’s basement being pushed against a wall of strangers illuminated by the soft glow from a string of multi-colored Christmas lights. 

Within seconds, lead singer Jack David bursts into the track, spitting bile at things completely out of his control before recounting a tale of teenage abandonment that becomes the foundation for the rest of the song. “I kinda felt like I was wasting your time,” he explains, grappling with decade-past trauma as the instrumental gnashes beneath him. 

Guided by an even-keel bassline, mathy guitar taps, and swift drumline, the song propels itself forward in time, introducing new characters and events that find the roles reversing as David now feels like he’s the one wasting someone else’s time. Eventually, the song returns to where it started. Now in search of some form of closure or acceptance, David finds himself returning to the scene of the first verse with a new outlook, arriving at the conclusion “I kinda feel like you've been wasting my time,” achieving some form of redemption before the song quiets to a close, leaving us to fill in the rest. 

The fact that Knope is able to pair this heartfelt narrative (complete with a clever lyrical through line and three-act structure) in just under three minutes is a testament to their ability as writers. The decision to pair this sentimental storytelling with such an energetic instrumental is an arresting contrast that will have you coming back for multiple re-listens, hungry what comes next in the EP. On the bright side, at least we all have some time to memorize the lyrics before our next communal basement singalong, whenever that may be. 

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“Broken Couch” drops on all streaming platforms tomorrow, and Knope’s upcoming EP, An Exercise In Patience, will be available everywhere on 9/16 through Chillwave Records.

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The Divine Refuge of Welcome to Conceptual Beach

Where do you go when you need an escape? It was probably easier to answer that question before 2020, but that’s what makes the concept of personal sanctuary all the more essential right now. Between the ongoing global pandemic, a just-now-ramping-up election cycle, and a fascist government that’s systematically brutalizing and murdering its own citizens, most days it feels like there’s abject horror in every conceivable direction. 

Some days the scale of pain and unrest is too much to bear; it’s unending and feels like it’s only getting worse. While everything I’ve just listed is a fact of day-to-day life in 2020, it’s important to counter that sense of grief and hopelessness with something, anything, to keep yourself going. We’ve reached a point where it’s simultaneously ‘every man for himself’ and ‘we’re all in this together.’ You have to find your escape and hold onto it for dear life while also keeping close to the people you love to make sure they’re doing the same. 

Taking a break from the always-on rage-filled indignance of the world has transformed from a skill to a necessity over the past few months. Finding the balance between staying informed, using your voice, and taking time to unplug is an invaluable skill that’s nothing short of essential in 2020. On Welcome to Conceptual Beach, Young Jesus use lush instrumentation, dreamlike lyrics, and wandering improvisational passages to depict the ethereal world that lead singer John Rossiter has constructed as his mental refuge from the world. 

Beginning with a steady drumline and Perfume Genius-like augmented vocals, opening track “Faith” acts as an introduction to this world, the sonic equivalent of a plane descending from the clouds to its final destination. As the band layers on bass, guitar, and synth, the track becomes increasingly abstract, yet still somehow measured and orderly, like a Pollock painting. Splotches of distortion and dissonant stabs of guitar eventually all coalesce into a dreamlike ascension around the three-minute mark, providing a springboard for Rossiter to launch into a soaring, uncontrollable cry. And just like that, you’ve planted your feet firmly on the sands of the Conceptual Beach. 

Over the course of the next four tracks, the band pairs Rossiter’s vocals and their Matt Berninger-like ache with instrumentals that alternate between Peaer-style mathy emo and Wild Pink’s heartland indie rock. However, to pin Young Jesus down to one style or list of influences would be a great disservice, this is one of the few bands that have managed to pull off the enviable transition from “emo band” into something wholly unique and unclassifiable. There’s a heavenly saxophone solo on “Pattern Doubt,” and a hypnotic whammy bar chord on “(un)knowing.” There are tight riffs and jazzy improvisations. There are poetic lyrics, abstruse monologues, and mesmerizing mantras. There are bouts of chaotic stimulation punctuated by stretches of meditative silence. All of these artistic elements assemble to form an eclectic collection of sounds, concepts, and ideas that prove to be fruitful ground in bringing to life this ethereal land of sea and sand that exists in the band’s shared vision.

“Meditations” is a jazzy gut-punch that opens with fluttering woodwinds, swirling angelic vocals, and long strings of hammer-on guitarwork. As the haunting 7-minute journey comes to a rest at the midway point, the instrumental settles for a beat switch that works up to one of the most interesting passages of the album; a hypnotic repetition of “I wanna be around and live it” that begins as a whispered curiosity but works its way up to a cosmically affirming shout.

Lead single “Root and Crown” is the album’s most traditional-sounding cut, clocking in a playlist-ready two-minutes and 52-seconds. This song acts as the album's de facto mission statement, as Rossiter croons a fourth-wall-breaking soliloquy to the listener. 

Every record needs a thesis, needs a crisis, or campaign
All my feelings need a reason, need a righteousness or blame
What if living wasn't of the mind?
The root and crown don't doubt the wintertime

Simultaneously a thought-provoking criticism of art, emotion, and the eternal tie between the two, these lyrics are some of the most poignant on the entire release. As these thoughts are being delivered, a velveteen acoustic guitar progression and singular synth note guide these revelations, eventually entwining into a peaceful end that gives the first side of the album a sleepy yet existential resting point.

While the record has already been fascinating, purposeful, and unlike anything I’d ever heard up to this point, where Welcome To Conceptual Beach really shines is its final suite of songs. Both “Lark” and “Magicians” span the record’s back half, clocking in at 12 minutes and 10 minutes respectively. These tracks aren’t quite a curveball, but still manage to subvert the listener’s stylistic expectations, breaking format while simultaneously building off everything that had come before them at that point in the tracklist.

“Lark'' utilizes a shimmering and sunny instrumental to guide the listener through the lively sounds of crowded rooms and a spoken-word monologue. The song’s final verse ends shortly after the four-minute mark, leaving the instrumental to simmer down to the pace of a completely-still lake. From this point, the band unfurls a jaw-droppingly gorgeous and jazzy instrumental that sounds completely improvised. As the bass thumps, guitar glistens, and drums shake, the listener is left to meditate on what they had just taken in. The instrumental rises and falls, allowing the mind to race alongside the track, cresting at the same pace, projecting whatever thoughts, problems, or reflections it needs to upon the canvas of the song. 

Near the 8-minute mark of “Lark,” the band falls into a melody that mirrors the top of the track. Now sounding triumphant and unburdened, the song carries the listener off with celebratory uplift and amazement. While the first half of the track was chaotic, messy, and trapped in its own head, the outro gives the impression that everything had happened that way for a reason. It’s the sound of a life sorting itself out. It’s proof that there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. It’s the optimistic take that the universe always bends towards justice and harmony.

Closing track “Magicians” picks up right where “Lark” left off, continuing this newfound sense of optimism but looking outward, viewing the world as it stands and looking forward to what lies ahead of us in that moment. Rossiter sets the scene within the first few seconds, depicting his past life, current existence, and possible futures.

I’m born at 29 occasioned by magicians
I felt the only life’s the life you lead alone
If every older guy’s a broker or casino
I thought I’d roll the dice or play ethnographer
And as a baby I was huge and quite judicious
I’d tell you every lie that is or ever was
But in divulging every secret or suspicion
I came to crying and to hate my life alone

After this first verse, the band falls back into a winding instrumental stretch, almost as if by accident, like the narrator was lost in his own train of thought, battling his anxieties before our very ears. These stretches reminded me immediately of the more grandiose tracks from Sharks Keep Moving, who have penned some of my favorite songs of all time. Within the space of two minutes, the Rossiter has regained his composure and finds himself grappling with his current realities before gently landing on the topic of love.

In every phone I find a reason to get bitter
But every critic’s got some things they’re not proud of
I count myself among the chief of all these critters
I count myself more often than I count the stars
But there are magicians making love and doing dishes
I make my way to magic or belief in love

Again, a chorus of soaring background vocals leads to the song “collapsing” into another improvised instrumental stretch where intermittent guitar strums, bass notes, and drum taps play off each other, giving the listener space to think, feel, and be heard. Eventually, the track winds down near-nothingness; single guitar notes float in space surrounded by long stretches of dark silence. Right as you think the album is going to end, the band comes back with one more fragment of a song to wrap the album up with.

First, the guitar catches its own rhythm, joined quickly by a rolling drumline, and eventually the bass. As this track picks up steam, it builds to a soulful guitar solo that paves the way for one final patch of lyricism that closes out the record. Rossiter enters with a literal whisper singing of cosmic pain and redemption.

You know it, the way it moves and
You think about it every single day
The sun and the greater bruise
The bridge when every day begins to fade

I know it, the way you move and
The holiness of what we did today
Our love is the aching news of
It’s everlasting and it’s single day

You know it, the way you move and
The holiness of every single day
Our love is the greater bruise
The bridge to everlasting every day

These final words are interrupted by a frisson-inducing riff that comes in loud and beaming as if being broadcast down from the heavens. Towering above the mix, this is one of the most powerful moments I’ve ever heard put to record and an absolutely perfect way to end the album. It sounds holy, it sounds pristine, it sounds like a perfect moment.

Welcome to Conceptual Beach is a world-class record that emphasizes everything I’ve found to be important in 2020. The fact that within 40 minutes the album moves from defeatist lyrics like “That’s how we live / Between pain and hopelessness,” to the relative optimism of it’s final two tracks is an awe-inspiring journey.

I’ve lost track of the number of things that have gone wrong this year, but Welcome to Conceptual Beach stands as an album-length memorial to the things that have gone right. This record is a monument to the moments of love, happiness, and peace that exist between the sadness and pain. Having that space to escape is an invaluable bit of real estate, and with this record, Young Jesus proved that sometimes the most rewarding thing is letting other people in.

Pinkshift's Music Video for “i’m gonna tell my therapist on you” Is an Ode to Socially Distant Rocking

It’s no secret that 2020 has been miserable. Throughout the year, music has remained a consistent escape and (often singular) ray of hope in the face of the crushing bleakness that is reality. 

Not to sound too coldhearted or depressing, but when numbness is your default mode of operation, I’ve found music to be the one thing that can break me out of that every time. Whether it’s being jolted awake by the madness of the 100 gecs remix album, finding solace in the spaced-out relaxation on Texas Sun, or the feeling of excitement that comes with discovering a new band that becomes your next obsession.

While everyone is struggling (and coping) with the new realities of our world in different ways, musical artists have been hit particularly hard. Album releases have been disrupted, touring music has ceased entirely, and the tenuous relationship between artist and streaming services has grown even more strained. Everything from dropping a song to selling merch has been upended, but musicians are nothing if not resourceful. 

Bands have turned to direct lines of support in order to maintain their lives and passion. Artists have turned to Patreon, livestreaming, and Bandcamp to sustain themselves both creatively and financially. It’s making the best of a bad thing, and that’s an admirable thing considering we’re looking at a world where concerts might not return till late 2021 if we’re lucky. 

In the face of quarantine, artists have found creative workarounds for these restrictions; Charli XCX created a whole album in quarantine about quarantine with the help of her fans. Ratboys have scrapped their 2020 tour plans in favor of a “virtual tour” playing places like Stonehenge, Niagra Falls, and the Moon. 

The latest in this line of quarantined creativity comes in the form of Pinkshift. This Baltimore-based punk group combines the snarled vocals of Destroy Boys with the driving instrumental bite of mid-2000’s power pop groups like Damone. Last week the band released “i’m gonna tell my therapist on you,” a catchy, three-minute punk cut that grapples with the assholes in your life and the asshole in the back of your head. 

Today the group dropped the video for “therapist,” and it fits the song perfectly. Filmed in their cars, homes, bathrooms, and nearby open fields, the music video is a socially-distant take on rocking, showcasing each band member fully-committing to shredding even if it means wearing a mask and keeping six feet away from each other. It’s a brilliant document of music in 2020 and a testament to the resilience of DIY bands. Because if music really is your calling and your one true outlet, you’ll always find a way to make it work, even when the world is ending.

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