Polkadot – …to be crushed | Album Review

Count Your Lucky Stars

New Year's Eve is always a bittersweet moment for me. I don’t like the dreariness of winter much, and I find the parties fairly boring – instead, I usually spend the lead-up to the special day trapped in that weird mid-holiday liminal slump. More specifically, these past few years, I have spent that time leading up to New Year's Eve just sitting in my car, often in a parking lot with the music low, contemplating how my year went, probably against my best interests. Did I change? Did anyone change? Did something change? Should I change for the new year? 

Polkadot’s sophomore album, …to be crushed, asks the same questions and, despite releasing on the precipice of summer, already feels like it's destined to soundtrack that liminal time on the precipice of a new year. Using precise melodies and sharp motifs, each song operates with certainty against looming unpredictability, seemingly invigorated by the challenge to one day move comfortably with the passing of time. As a band largely concerned with feeling weird and trying to find the words for it, this album is full of “tweemo” hooks, fuzz, and group vocals that inch closer toward the answers through profoundly confessional lyricism.

 …to be crushed starts on “Left Behind” with just the haunting presence of guitarist/vocalist Daney Espiritu’s words and the distant pluck of a guitar. Espiritu welcomes the listener into the hazy world of the album and lets the rest slowly sharpen into focus. Lyrics about loneliness and self-worth weave together as they are joined by different members of the band, one by one. Together, these instruments mimic the evenness and clarity of the lyrics. It’s a stellar opener that prepares the tone of the rest of the album – contemplative, transparent, and just hopeful enough. It also introduces the collaborative aspect of the redefined band. While Polkadot originally began as Espiritu’s solo project, it has since become a full band effort, opening places to Anton Benedicto on drums, Jordan Jones on bass, and Matthew Estolano on guitar. The first song directly reflects this evolution and, over the course of two and a half minutes, dissolves the barriers around the frustrating aspects of loneliness.

What is Heaven to you? This is a mildly jarring topic Espiritu opens the second song, “New Friends,” with. It’s a vivid and contemplative suggestion that momentarily breaks the distance between musician and listener as we picture our different versions of Heaven. Espiritu describes Heaven with a specific list: karaoke in purple lights, crawling into your arms, playing cards at a bar with friends. This prompt is a scene-setting lyric that encapsulates and encloses themes of the entire album.

“New Friends” is a song that should be, no, needs to be danced to. It has a heartbeat made for grabbing your friend’s hands and jumping around together under a venue’s rotating lights. It demands to be sung along to, face to face, or toward a stage. More than that, it’s sharing sincerity with you. Between the first two tracks, it is abundantly clear that Espiritu is operating with a level of trust between listener and artist, each lyric stitched together with an uncompromising honesty. But suddenly, the contemplation fades away, and the once-danceable melody turns into a thrashy moment to scream to instead of sway to. In “New Friends,” Espiritu sings about specific moments the listener has no reference to and no insight into, but it doesn’t matter; it’s magnetic, and for a fleeting moment, it's yours too.

There is a definitive confidence in Espiritu’s voice, one that suggests that what is being said has been considered and measured, yet an air of reluctance lingers. This makes the words all the more personal. In the bass-heavy “Baby Buzzkill,” Espiritu describes the crushing weight of your own worst thoughts that draw you to stay under your covers, hiding from what might be outside. The disappointment of the lyrics are ultimately drowned out by building distortion and even louder cymbal crashes, leaving the listener with a long buzz of static, which finalizes the emotional thread of the lyrics more effectively than words could. 

The album winds through its purple light-lit and fuzzy world before ending on “This Year.” Recalling the singular feeling of the opening track, “This Year” is a song once again started with just a distant strum and clear words; however, this time, it’s engulfed by lingering and almost eerie static – like a guitar left too close to an amp by a band that just left the stage for an encore. As Espiritu’s lyrics seem to reluctantly declare that the time for being jaded is over, a guitar whines ominously from behind, threatening an entrance into the song. A drum’s thud quickly follows as the guitar begins to weave over and under the lyrics. A cacophony is incoming, and it could happen at any time… But it doesn’t. Instead, group vocals enter and soften the blow. Together, the band repeats a single lyric, “This year is coming to an end, I don’t feel any different,” which is punctuated by a repeating kick drum beat. This is a lonesome lyric to end the album on, but the chorus of voices makes it familiar. Loneliness is tangible, yes, but it isn’t singular.

Long after the distortion fades away and the final lyric is sung, New Year’s Eve will come around, and I will once again be in that parking lot, music low, wondering if I changed. Did anyone change? Did something change? Should I change for the new year? But that has to be ignored because, from Polkadot’s perspective, it doesn’t matter. What matters are the fragments of feeling, the pieces of memory, and the persistent hope for something better. Time isn’t linear; a new year is just a new year, and there is always room for more (whatever more may be).

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Caro Alt’s (she/her) favorite thing in the world is probably collecting CDs. Caro is from New Orleans, Louisiana and spends her time not sorting her CD collection even though she really, really needs to.

DIIV – Frog In Boiling Water | Album Review

Fantasy Records

I haven’t been doing well, man.

I’m having trouble looking people in the eyes, fretful they might reveal that unmistakable, embarrassing thread of desperation. Every morning, I wake up, and they feel sunken, like ancient craters on the moon. Immediately, they affix themselves to my distractions, working with whatever fits in the palm of my hand. Energy leaks from the pores in my skin like steam from the morning shower — I look at myself in the bathroom mirror and run my fingers numbly over the moguls of my ribcage. A roommate told me to water her Monstera every two weeks while she’s gone, and a month later, it’s still just standing there, forlorn and wilting in the corner. I told her I’d water it, I told her that. What will she think of me when she comes back? That is one raindrop in a torrent I have no protection from. The AirPods go right back in: to another video, another song, another opinion, another memory-clogging flash of synthetic color and sound.

I have to believe that when I agreed to write about DIIV’s fourth record, I was better. That was late February, maybe? Perhaps it’s fitting to soundtrack a routine bout of depression with such overwhelmingly dour music, but the downside is that the murky beauty underneath it refuses to resonate with me. That’s what happens when you live in a negative copy of your present — that, and the pull of homeostasis. A pool of icy water feels fine if you’re just as cold when you enter it.

I don’t know if we’ve ever heard the Brooklyn-based indie stalwarts sound as comprehensively solemn as they sound on their latest record. It’s not surprising. This is the trajectory the band has charted since their 2012 debut Oshin, which saw Zachary Cole Smith and company riding the post-Beach Fossils jangle revival all the way to Peter Parker’s dorm room. Years later, burnout and heroin addiction informed the fragile, misunderstood Is The Is Are, but it still produced a handful of singles in conversation with (or, more likely, in an obligation to) Oshin’s festival-bound buoyancy. Opiate addiction, for many people, is a point of no return, and regardless of whether or not you manage to stabilize, the phantom ache of electrochemistry haunts every good day thereafter, forever in danger of sinking the ship. And yet even 2019’s Deceiver, the start of Smith’s newly sober reality, sneaks in an uplifting turn of melody or two.

In comparison, the water boiling the titular frog is fathoms deep, deep enough to stop light in its tracks. Rhythmically, the pace is sluggish; sonically, the colors run inky and polluted. Much of the inspiration comes from genres celebrated for their sensate qualities, which the band then beats into a bruised, cohesive paste. Lead single “Brown Paper Bag” is classic shoegaze with a clear MBV callback near the end and a visualizer whose downcast one-shot makes for a cheeky double metaphor. “Everyone Out” cribs the jugular thump and plucked harmonics of Sonic Youth’s “Shadow of a Doubt” but not its eroticism; instead, the band can only manage the gray line between optimism and cynicism, and that is about as chipper as they get here.

DIIV has a knack for delivering penultimate album tracks, and “Soul-net,” a song ostensibly about social media, hits hard here. On paper, Smith’s words seem to arrive at an epiphany. “I’m not afraid / I love my pain / I know we can leave this prison,” he offers as a protective mantra. The music says otherwise. There’s real dread pulsing through the song’s twin guitar lines and rotten kick drum, and instead of building toward catharsis, the minor key only clenches tighter, squeezing the life out of his voice. It’s not a clean split, not even close; it’s the familiar grip of addiction in all its forms.

Bandleader Zachary Cole Smith, having long ditched his blonde swoop and beanie for a short brown shag and boxy glasses, inhabits the role of a doomsayer on a street corner, muttering soft curses and hoarse self-lacerations underneath the roar of the band. It’s hard to hear a man pushing forty sounding so existentially crushed. “Remember they told us / the tide lifts our boats up / That ocean is dried out,” he moans on opener “In Amber,” perhaps indirectly recalling the band’s earliest and more innocent effort. The grand theme here is “cultural collapse,” as outlined in Daniel Quinn’s 1996 novel The Story of B, from which the LP gets its name. “If you place [a frog] gently in a pot of tepid water and turn the heat on low,” they explain, “before long, with a smile on its face, it will unresistingly allow itself to be boiled to death.”

Smith alludes constantly to the ingredients of the soup: the threat of war, the raging cultural one, the pleasure suck of the internet, and the ongoing climate emergency, all of which make, in Quinn’s words, “customs and institutions fall into disuse and disrespect, especially among the young, who see that even their elders can no longer make sense of them.” You might get a glimmer of some focus, maybe in the mordant title track or the angsty “Somber the Drums,” but Smith’s lyrics are largely content to soak in the feeling of comfortable misery rather than specify what’s causing it. They circle the drain rather than the point, which is probably a good thing; the abstraction pairs well with the thick murk of the music, which feels more authentic and more succinct than anything Smith might explicate.

Some still believe the notion that our music ought to reflect the times, and they would be satisfied by the nebulous devastation swirling throughout Frog in Boiling Water. However, I question how effective that archaic approach can continue to be. We can be galvanized by music, enough to write about it. For the overwhelming rest of us, it’s part of the thing, not the whole thing. It tells us who we are and how we relate to everybody else; it gets us through long plane trips and treadmill sessions; it backgrounds our trips to the grocery store, the barbershop, and the local tavern. It’s there when we’re high and when we’re low, when we’re feeling everything and nothing at all, an unerring current running parallel to the anfractuousness of our lives. It is every sound at once, and it never stops, not even for a second.

It’s just another album. What feels more radical is absolute silence, the needle reaching the inner groove, the cease of the thrum that finally reveals how far we’ve grown from each other, how hot the water has become. But then, who can bear to feel the burn? And thus, we are cursed. The AirPods go right back in.

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Rob Moura is from Seattle. He covers local music as the editor for WASH Magazine and writes for The Stranger, Earshot Jazz, and ARCADE, among others. Say hi to him on Instagram and/or follow his Substack. He also plays quiet acoustic folk as Armour; he’d love it if you gave his new album a spin.

Amen Dunes – Death Jokes | Album Review

Sub Pop Records

Let’s get this out of the way: Freedom from Amen Dunes is a real IYKYK album. One for the heads, if you will. The record was critically acclaimed upon release, yet it felt as though I never really heard people talking about it. I'd see a post here and there online, but other than that, I was left to enjoy it in relative solitude. 

Freedom is a freewheeling exploration of what rock n roll is and what rock n roll does, pulling from past sounds and textures, then peeling back the skin to show what’s underneath it all. Everything Amen Dunes does on Freedom can be summed up on “Blue Rose” as Damon McMahon sings, “We play religious music, don’t think you’d understand, man.” 

The music that Amen Dunes makes is indeed religious, as it seeks to blend elements of some sacred plane with the beauty and nastiness of our mortal world. McMahon does this through a raga-like vocal approach, bringing a droning quality to how he forces out syllables. For me, it’s this way of singing that transfixed me on my first listen six years ago because it felt so strange. There was something seemingly so familiar about his voice yet also so foreign at the same time, almost like a more visceral David Gray. I’ve been trying to put my finger on what McMahon’s sound reminds me of, but whenever I think I’ve found the answer, it escapes my grasp, and I think it’s this constant chase that’s been drawing me back to Freedom time and time again without growing bored.

For the last few years, I’ve been eagerly waiting for when Amen Dunes would return with new music. I absolutely needed to know what the next move would be. How would McMahon follow up an album that had such an immediate and lasting impact on my life? 

McMahon briefly tipped his hand in 2021 after signing with Sub Pop when he released “Feel Nothing,” a trippy dance track that sounds like it could fit on Freedom while also pointing toward a new direction. While I loved the song, I was unsure what it meant for Amen Dunes due to its status as a loosie. Would they stay in the lane that Freedom created, or would they journey into uncharted waters? Both options are exciting but also come with certain anxieties as a fan. By continuing to explore the same sounds, I would get to keep enjoying what made me first fall in love with their music, but with the risk that it begins to feel stale. However, if they take a sharp left turn, I might love the new music, but I also run the risk of becoming disconnected from the artist. 

Damon McMahon chose the second option, and it was well worth the risk. Amen Dunes's new album, Death Jokes, is a chaotic and thrilling record that not only marks a new chapter in the artist's career but is an album that only McMahon could make. Gone are the bright and grandiose guitar anthems, and in come a collection of songs built from samples, drum machines, and glitches. Interwoven amongst all the frenzy and noise are mantras that push back against the malaise that many of us feel toward society’s fraying fabric. 

On the ethereal jam, “Exodus,” McMahon remarks, “You say life is hard. Well, at least you think it is. But it’s a joke. Some day we lose it. So use it.” He’s hanging on every syllable, pleading that we emerge from this prolonged brain fog to see what’s in front of us and embrace the present. 

This idea of embracing life is central to the album’s spirit as McMahon meditates on the importance of existence, concluding that, yes, it means everything, and also, no, it means nothing at all. After mentioning someone’s passing on “Boys,” McMahon challenges his audience, saying, “Do you really want it? Oh, you always said you would.” It’s as if he’s saying, ‘You’ve seen how quickly it can all go away, so why aren’t you willing to cherish the only thing you truly have?’

His challenge is present in the music itself, resembling the information overload of our endless scrolling. Between the samples, the beats, and McMahon's elongated vocal approach, I found Death Jokes to almost be impenetrable on my first listen. Amongst the sonic maelstrom, I had to cling to fleeting phrases in order to make some sense of it all. With each listen, I found new moments to latch on to, and slowly, I was rewarded for my presence. In the end, I'm thankful that McMahon has gone in this uncharted direction because he has taught me that to truly appreciate a person's art is to ride the wave where it takes you. 

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Connor is an English professor in the Bay Area, where he lives with his partner and their cat and dog, Toni and Hachi. When he isn’t listening to music or writing about killer riffs, Connor is reading fiction and obsessing over sports.

So Totally – Double Your Relaxation | Album Review

Tiny Engines

“Time is a flat circle,” a dirty, disheveled Matthew McConaughey said in the television show True Detective. If you’re not distracted by his messy hair and the thousand-yard stare from his character, he was really onto something. This also applies to music, which is influenced by cyclical trends, scenes, and waves just as much as any other art form. As a fan, it can be exhilarating to watch a specific type of sound catch as artists build off the shared inspiration in their own unique ways. Of course, once something gets big enough, every record company and their mother wants to capture that sonic inferno, and indie rock is no different. The shoegaze scene is exploding right now, with bands like Wednesday, They Are Gutting a Body of Water, and Hotline TNT leading the charge toward a heavy and hazy new era of rock music.

So, with this trend being the "Next Big Thing" in rock, imitators are bound to come out of the woodwork replicating atmospheric vibes that are inauthentic and empty at their core. However, the Philadelphia quartet So Totally is up next, not just in riding the wave of shoegaze but in pushing the sonic scope of the genre forward, reminiscent of their Pennsylvania counterparts like Spirit of the Beehive and Feeble Little Horse. But the band isn’t a Johnny-come-lately in the shoegaze neighborhood; they've been living on this block for quite some time. Just look at their 2019 record, In the Shape Of…, and you'll discover those very same scuffed-out guitars turned up to max power. The same goes for the group’s debut EP, A Cheap Close-Up of Heaven, from 2016.

Before they became a band, the members of So Totally initially connected over their shared affinity for the band Land of Talk, which would explain how they have such a knack for creating ear-wormy melodies. Their distinct sound coalesces around singer/guitarist Roya Weidman’s silky vocals, strategically tucked underneath glistening guitars and powerful grooves. Her bandmates, guitarist Matt Arbiz, bassist Ryan Wildsmith, and drummer Joe McLaughlin, can set the table better than any waiter at Nobu with their chameleon-like instrumental blend of dream-like pop to heavy shoegaze. It's a sound that leans heavy into the 90s, think My Bloody Valentine having a situationship with The Breeders and The Pixies. 

So Totally’s sophomore album starts with “Welcome Back,” which feels like a sample platter offering all the band's ideas wrapped into one song; it's a rhythmic, vibey excursion that whisks the listener away with no idea where they’ll end up. The way the music seamlessly intertwines from a blissful dream to razor-edge guitars is a pure delight, all the while, it seems like Weidman is singing through a walkie-talkie. The lead single, “Distinct Star,” leans towards shoegaze with a pop spin; from the melodic distortion to the whispery vocals, it's a mix that goes down smoothly. “Doz Roses” is a song that showcases this band's potential with searing guitar sounds jam-packed with hypnotic melodies from Wiedman, creating an immersive experience you never want to escape. 

So Totally pays tribute to the vintage alternative rock sound of yesteryear with “Weak To Leaf,” which sports shredding solos and mega walls of noise, resulting in a song that’s reminiscent of early-90s Smashing Pumpkins and also one of the best on the entire record. Mid-album cut “BTW” has a dreamy intro and mystifying vocals that intertwine with glimmering guitars, giving the feeling of drifting away on a nimbus cloud. A couple of tracks later on “Baby Step To Revenge,” Wiedman's hauntingly blissful melodies ride a wave of atmospheric, moody music. The song feels more like a cinematic excursion, instantly ready to elevate any late-night drive. 

The title “Double Your Relaxation” was taken from a self-hypnosis tape, with pieces of the recording inserted throughout the album. The phrase refers to “the exact moment one can enter the psyche and become susceptible to influence.” This phrase offers insight into how So Totally creates their music: lulling the listener into a sense of comfort and openness so that they can carve their riffs and melodies somewhere deep in their psyche. It's a clever spin on the shoegaze genre, keeping things fresh for the listener without feeling too redundant, especially given this recent influx of pedal-heavy music. The songs might challenge you on first listen, but once you become accustomed to their sounds, you will want to stay fully immersed in their world. Between the hypnosis tapes woven throughout and the brooding vibes of the record, it starts to feel like something you could imagine Batman playing to psyche himself up right before he jumps across rooftops hunting down supervillains.

The Bandcamp genre tags for Double Your Relaxation are all the evidence you need to witness this band’s lofty aspirations: “doom love,” “grunge wedding,” “dream pop,” “rock,” and “shoegaze.” You can do nothing but admire their ambition, not wanting to wash, rinse, and repeat the same shoegaze music that has taken over social media. Take the music video for the vibe-heavy ballad “Strange Way,” which is a freakish mix of stop-motion animation and film that looks like a psychedelic's wet dream. This isn't some copy-and-paste by-the-numbers shoegaze band, you can tell how seriously they take their craft. Double Your Relaxation is an album that not only respects and honors the shoegaze sound of the past but pushes the genre forward into a brighter future.

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David is a content mercenary based in Chicago. He's also a freelance writer specializing in music, movies, and culture. His hidden talents are his mid-range jump shot and the ability always to be able to tell when someone is uncomfortable at a party. You can find him scrolling away on Instagram @davidmwill89, Twitter @Cobretti24, or Medium @davidmwms.

GUPPY – Something is Happening… | Album "Review"

Lauren Records

I should warn you. I’m pretty passionate about the band GUPPY. 

Last year, I saw GUPPY live for the first time when they came to San Francisco to open for Chris Farren. Halfway through the set, I turned to the people next to me (acquaintances from a Discord server) and yelled, “THIS IS YOUR FAVORITE BAND NOW.” I was just stating the obvious. Afterward, I went up to the band to introduce myself. “I love you,” I said to J, the front person and primary songwriter. “Thank you,” they said sensibly. “I just don’t understand why they aren’t the biggest band in the world,” I said to my husband Ben in the car on the long drive back to San Jose. “How could anyone hear them and not love them?”

GUPPY is J Lebow (vocals and guitar), Ian Cohen (drums), Kabir Kumar (guitar) and Marc Babcock (bass)

I think the magic of GUPPY is their friendship. The four band members have the kind of friendship that feels rare for adults; effortlessly shifting between “your mom” jokes and real-ass intimacy. That’s pretty much what their music does, too. Each member is essential to the group chemistry and unapologetically themselves. They listen to each other when they talk and when they play. Being at a GUPPY show feels like being a weird kid in middle school and then finding a group of older, cooler, weird kids you can be yourself around (yes, I read The Perks of Being a Wallflower at a formative age). It’s a safe space.

It’s also a FUN space. After all, this is a punk band… kind of. “Texting and driving and driving and texting // I’ll be arriving while driving while texting,” J talk-sings on “Texting & Driving” over a funky bassline and percussion that sounds like it may involve a cowbell, bongos, and/or horse hooves. The fun is always fun, but it is never only fun; that is to say, every GUPPY song has additional emotional depth and purpose beyond their ridiculous antics and zesty one-liners - of which there are many (“I’m catching Kony. It’s me - I got him // I made a trade for Osama Bin Laden // Mission accomplished because America’s awesome // They wrote the scripture and I’m just their golem” - seriously, listen to "Texting & Driving").

With a trademark mix of stubbornness, mischief, and good-natured introspection, GUPPY is a perfect candidate for the “tenderpunk” genre label patented by illuminati hotties shredder Sarah Tudzin, who, oh yeah, also happens to be GUPPY’s producer. GUPPY’s new album Something is Happening…  has an undeniably punk spirit; there are themes of resistance and rebellion, there are loud guitars and yelling, there is a song called “I’m Fighting a 10 Foot Tall Nancy Pelosi” that goes out repeating the line, “I’d rather eat the pavement than lick your boot.” But there are also quiet moments of self-soothing, earnest vocals softened by tight harmonies, and a little too much silliness to come across as properly tough. Tudzin lets the huge songs be huge and the tender songs be tender (holy dynamics, Batman) and always lets GUPPY be GUPPY. It would be hard to stop them.

Something is Happening… documents the struggle of trying to be emotionally vulnerable in a way that feels much more relatable and believable to me than anything designed to fit in on Spotify’s “sad girl starter pack” playlist (I will now refrain from complaining about how everyone is ripping off Phoebe Bridgers because I’m tired of hearing everyone complain about how everyone is ripping off Phoebe Bridgers.) “Feelings, they cannot kill you,” J sings on the title track, articulating a pretty good thesis statement to summarize the album*.

*I should warn you. I actually know that this is the intended thesis statement of the album because I heard J say it to lead guitarist Kabir Kumar while we were at their house practicing for a Sun Kin show. That’s right, despite my overall weirdo behavior in San Francisco, we all became friends and collaborators and are actually playing together at that same venue where I first saw them in just a few days. That’s also right - I am totally cheating at music journalism right now with a bunch of insider information. I’m sorry if you made it this far without realizing that and now feel cheated. Let’s look on the bright side though: I am totally cheating innovating at music journalism right now with a bunch of insider information.

(I will now shut up for 2 minutes and 30 seconds while you listen to the title track of Something is Happening… which also happens to be the first track on the album and the first line of the first song on the album. Isn’t that cool? Is there a word for when the first line of an album/book/movie is also the title? Wow, that slide guitar is beautiful. I’m so excited that you’re listening to this album, I really think you’re gonna like it because it’s very good.)

From “Something is happening…”:

Something is happening…
don’t know what it is
But I think I could like it
if I just learn to let it in

If I don’t like it
If it’s not good
Letting it in now
I think I still should

Feelings they cannot kill you
even feelings that want you dead
Living here in this moment
the clouds have come down to my head

Damn. Right, so, the magic of GUPPY is their friendship. The other magic of GUPPY is primary lyricist J’s unique ability to view the world with an outsider’s detachment that is somewhere in between “childlike wonder” and “the blue alien guy with horse hooves and tentacle eyes in Animorphs who has to morph into a human and try to act normal.”

That latter is especially felt when they describe matters of the human body, which happens, like, a lot. J’s ability to communicate their emotions through descriptions of physical sensations, and their ability to notice these things to begin with, is totally baffling to me as a songwriter and as a human**.

**I should warn you. I am a giant prude. I am totally weird about various human body things, in fact, really do not even like typing the word “body” this much, and find several lines from this album super uncomfortable, which just makes them all that more impactful.

From “American Cowboy”:

Standing in front of an open fridge, trying just to keep my chill
Putting my hands in my roommate’s yogurt for something I can actually feel
My hands are feeling sticky
but I’ve got no regret
‘cause all my thoughts and actions
are the fucking best
I’m an American cowboy
and my stomach hurts like shit
I’m gonna find out what you love, and I’m gonna demolish it

Seriously, doesn’t that give off the vibe of someone who is new to having hands? (Someone who is used to having hooves, perhaps?) I have often wondered, "How the hell does J's brain work?" “Wondered” is the wrong word; more like “aggressively interrogated” both J themself and other people close to them. I feel that if I could document the answer to this question, it would be a great scientific breakthrough, and we could use this information to benefit the human race.

I am not alone in this thought. I once heard Chris Farren ask Kabir, "Has J ever made normal music before?" For some reason, my gut reaction was to get defensive, and I said, "Have YOU ever made normal music before?" (narrowly escaping “Has YOUR MOM ever made normal music before?”), but then I immediately realized that this was a very good question that I also wanted to know the answer to. Later, I asked J a version of this question and they told me about the first song they ever wrote. I can’t remember what it was now, but rest assured, it was totally unhinged. It’s funny that Chris Farren is now in here for a second time. I hope he doesn’t mind. You should stream Chris Farren.

Sandwiched in between the vivid sensory descriptions of mundane-ass everyday stuff, you may occasionally find poignant reflections on the human condition on “Something is Happening…” Personally, I find them to be more impactful that way.

From “Mayor Pt. 2” (also see Mayor “part 1”):

Why does it smell like scrambled eggs when I’m driving on the freeway?
What’s the difference between love and hate when I feel it in my body?

Ok, but why does this remind me of that one Mary Kate and Ashley song, and also, why do I feel seen and heard and deeply touched by the fragility of life and the ways that grief can hit you at the most unexpected moments triggered by a familiar smell or taste and the crippling pointlessness of sitting in traffic?

Who makes the finest pizza? What killed the dinosaurs? Why does it smell like scrambled eggs when I’m driving on the freeway?

“I don’t care if it’s stupid, it still means something to me” J sings on one of the album’s sillier songs, “Candied Pecans.” I get the feeling that if something means something to any member of GUPPY, then it means something to them all. That’s friendship right there.

Mission accomplished because America’s awesome

IN SUMMARY

Animorphs is a science fantasy series of youth books written by K.A. Applegate and published by Scholastic. It is told from the perspective of a group of kids and one blue alien guy with sick tentacle eyes and horse hooves who has to morph into a human to fit in. The blue alien guy isn’t that great at being a human, but he’s trying his best to navigate the new sensations of walking on only two legs, communicating with words instead of telepathy, tasting and smelling stuff, and eating food. Also, sometimes everyone morphs into animals and fights other meaner aliens to save humanity. Then they morph back into humans and ignore all their trauma. 

Something is Happening… is an indie rock album by the beloved LA-based talk-sing band GUPPY, produced by Sarah Tudzin (illuminati hotties shredder and producer wizard) and released by Lauren Records. It is performed by a group of best friends and narrated by front person J. Lebow, who is a human with a lot of empathy and imagination. J is trying really hard to navigate human stuff like figuring out what to do with their arms, doing laundry, telepathically communicating with animals, tasting and smelling stuff, and eating yogurt. Also, sometimes they morph into a dog and/or fight a 10-foot-tall Nancy Pelosi to save America. Then they morph back into a human and process their feelings through songs.

GUPPY – Something is Happening… | Album “Review” is an article written by Katie McTigue and published by Swim Into The Sound. It is told from the perspective of a girl who is a fan and friend of GUPPY, and also has a sick band, and has decided to pretend to be a music journalist for some reason. Katie isn’t that great at being a music journalist, but she’s trying really hard to write something that sounds smart and has journalistic integrity despite being super biased that GUPPY is the greatest band in the world. Also, sometimes she morphs into a dog and/or fights a 10-foot-tall Nancy Pelosi to save America.

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Katie McTigue is in the band Pacing or maybe is Pacing; idk, branding is weird. You can find her @pacingmusic on Twitter and Instagram and pretty much everywhere.

Get tickets to see GUPPY with Pacing on 5/23 in San Francisco!