A small wish. Time to make some changes. Let us ship those people, the hateful, the terrible, the fucked-up who would advance fascism (and the attendant disgusting racist bullshit) or abet it or tolerate it, away, far away, to an uninhabitable island in the sea, let them roast in the sun, let them devour each other, let their remains desiccate in the sun and their bones bleach and be eroded by the salt in the water and the salt-spray on the wind. Let them be effaced from the earth, forever gone.

This song and this EP from Holy Fuck are excellent and well worth your time.

[BUY Bird Brains EP]

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Frankie Rose’s album Cage Tropical is very good. It has the feel of late-summer afternoon light through thick windowpanes. It feels like it lives in the world of a lost Felt album. It is hazy, gentle, sweet, and surprising. A meandering road trip from one coast to another, comforting for the incessant movement and newness it presents. Terminating in an unheralded Western town. Sacramento. Elko. Concord. Flagstaff. Rancho Cucamonga. Temecula. Settle in for a sabbatical. Land a job that lets you stay for a few months. New: place, lifestyle, sunsets, people, heat. The album opens up new vistas with every song. Brief and supremely listenable, one of the more enjoyable releases this year.

[BUY Cage Tropical]

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Is it only because our brains cannot perceive the actual motion of the universe? Is it because we're actually embedded in a hologram, flashing, massive, momentary? Are there membranes slowly folding together in a seamless embrace? Were it revealed that you were truly simulated, what would you still consider important? What would you be thankful for? Would it even matter, really, where it all came from, as long as you could still see them and still hold their hands and still sleep next to them at night?

[BUY Sketches]

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The solar eclipse is coming. The summer of totality, they say. If you stand in the middle of the path of totality, you yourself will be fulfilled, totaled. Through your welder’s-grade viewer, you’ll be able to look at the fucking sun: blocked hard as hell by the interloping moon. Celestial bodies, taunting each other. It will be photographed, brutally and infinitely. This is your chance to mock the sun, for the minute-plus that it’s thwarted in its mission. Gawk. Gather with others to watch the occurrence at eclipse parties, then plunge into an intense melancholy. Relive the moment, over and over again, for the next decade by watching, in isolation, amateur video and photographic documentation of the eclipse. Produce, for friends and family, a brief memoir about your experience called “Ekleipein: A disappearing act.”

[BUY Double Worshipper]

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de stad

In the city, you have a chance to interact, to brush up against, to coincide with. You allow your body to run alongside the bodies of many others. You emit your noises at them and hope some of them can stand your language and behavior long enough to enter into community with you. You pass through these multitudes many times over the course of your life, barking your sounds and making your cooperative gestures, until finally you succumb, sick or old, hunted down or simply left behind. On your way out, you fill out the survey that mostly asks, in different ways, What contribution did you make to your species cohort?

[BUY Impossible Accomplice]

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Take a break from your toil

We lived for a time on dust and carrion. Every day, we prayed: for rain, for a breeze, for some real sustenance. We made a hecatomb of our old cellphones and watched the toxic smoke ascend to the floor of heaven, where it dissipated, as though denied entry. One day, we came upon a cow who, at our approach, shuddered and collapsed. When we cut into it, we found it had been boiled alive by the heat and its wanderings. Even the insects that lived in the ground, when we saw them, seemed tired, defeated, done. There was no respite.

[Pre-order Offering]

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House show itinerant

He was one of those cool youth pastors, you know, rode a motorcycle, saw christophanies in things like the Walking Dead and shit like that. Talked a lot about zombie movies, actually, and explained what those had to say about salvation. He oversaw a lot of small groups, mostly with his guitar. There were many songs about Jesus's lost years, many songs about how radical Christianity really was, when you thought about it. "The lord was the first rocker," he said, "a true rebel. He killed that fig tree, remember." Then, after a year or so of this, he seemed to dim, somehow, started to show up late all the time and would stare into space a lot when someone asked him a simple question--even one right in his wheelhouse, like about which Coen brothers movie was based on the Book of Job, etc. Then he stopped showing up altogether. We later found out that he'd moved back east to go to business school.

[BUY Lo Tom]

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world death

Mt. Rainier from Nisqually

Oh man. Friends. Allow yourselves a momentary respite from worrying about the possible/probable imminent death of the planet. Take a deep breath and listen to this song, Judy French, by White Reaper. It’s not long and it will bring you enjoyment for its entire duration and what more can you ask of it? There’s an undeniable drive in this song that (musically) speaks of summer, East Coast summer, which is to say, pure and insane heat and humidity made bearable only by the freedom granted by the length of the days and the attendant increase in the likelihood of spontaneous parties of the backyard, municipal, block, illicit, and other varieties. Judy French is all yearning, pleading, hoping, cajoling. Hearts exploding with desire.

[BUY the World's Best American Band]

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the birth of the firework

On the 4th of July, will you be boating on a lake of sunscreen with Don Henley? Perhaps you will celebrate the birth of the U.S. by calmly and grimly drinking a gross of beers, composed of three equal parts of Bud Light, Coors Light, and Natural Light. Hold that sparkler over your heart when the anthem plays. Remain in full sun until your skin obtains the texture of pemmican. Someone has grilled a round meat with molten yellow atop it: celebrate. Enjoy the holiday, lapse into oblivion.

[BUY Singles, Demos and Rarities (2007-2010) at Discogs]

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exegese des souffles

Colin Stetson's new album, All This I Do For Glory, is an incredible album, and I mean that in the most literal sense: that I cannot believe that music like this exists. The new music seems like a distillation of his aesthetic and his technique, the songs feel sharp and willful and hard and yearning, somehow approaching a limit. When I saw him in concert some time in the fall of 2013, I was awed by what he did alone on stage. From way back in the crowd where I was, his silhouette suggested something more like a volunteer firefighter wrestling a humongous piece of plumbing pipe, but he produced unearthly sounds. All This I Do For Glory is a tremendous achievement, I think that's fair to say, but not one that everyone will admire, I guess; for me, there's a lot there, the album is spectacular and I listened to it maybe twice a day for a month. It is absorbing. There's no one making music quite like this: haunting, urgent, vivid, human, wild. One of the best albums of the year so far.

[BUY All This I Do For Glory]

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