Month: September 2014

Where Have All the Virgins Gone?

| Michelle

Hello again, digital fake world.

Glad to see you’re still glitching and glowing and pretending everything’s fine. I’ve been avoiding dates lately—not because I don’t want connection, but because I keep finding new guitars that feel more honest than anyone I’ve met. I bury myself in work, and most mornings are spent debating whether I should do yoga, take a shower, or crawl back into myself. Today, the shower won.

But let’s talk about something that did show up for me: the new album by Death From Above 1979. I’ve appreciated this band for years, but honestly, their earlier albums had started to wear out their welcome. The classic dirt was still there, but I knew every corner of it. I wanted something with the same bass-heavy chaos and cymbal whip, but with new blood.

This album delivered—and then some. I plugged it in and it didn’t just play at me, it snarled. It crooned between the screams, delivering hooks with this bitchy, confident swagger that cracked open my focus. My brain lit up. I drank coffee like it was medicine. I typed this post, wrote a project proposal, texted a friend, felt my own blood move inside me. It didn’t just slap—it dilated my eyes. There’s a Trent Reznor energy running through this one—slick and haunted, soaked in tension. The vocals are dipped in some beautifully corrupted filter and wrapped tightly around tracks that feel deeply intentional. Every song earns its place.

It’s a monster—but a soft one. A tiger curled next to you, vibrating with threat and beauty. It could kill you. Maybe it will. But you want to touch it anyway. You want to feel the danger in its breath and see the warmth in its eyes. You know better—and still, you press your hand to its chest. That’s this album. It’s balanced brutality. Tender destruction. You’ll love it even as it bares its teeth.

So don’t just listen. Approach it. Carefully. But definitely.

Cruel World

| Michelle

First Entry…

In over a year.

Renamed the blog. Seemed appropriate.

If you asked me what kind of music I want to play, I’d love to throw something timeless at you—Black Sabbath, The Beatles—some sacred old-school name. But the truth is? I need Royal Blood’s self-titled album, released August 25th, like it’s stitched into my DNA. It feels weird to name something that recent, but no joke—it’s the best shit I’ve heard recently.

If you’re into thick, gritty guitar tone and stripped-down, punch-in-the-gut structure—think the raw bones of The White Stripes, but without the art-school filter—this album is it. And to be clear: I never even liked The White Stripes. I liked the sound—the way the guitar and drums locked into each other like a fist tightening in real time. This record takes that vibe, cranks it harder, meaner, leaner. No skips. Every track hits like a blood rush to the brain. It hardens the soft stuff. It kicks you from the inside out.

This isn’t that shiny 80s-core that pops like cereal and gets soggy the second you actually bite in. This is eggs and bacon to the max, wrapped in a flour-soft skin, fried on both sides, and rolled into something primal. It’s a breakfast burrito for your soul—the kind that makes you forget sex, your job, your name. I’m obsessed. If I were stranded on a desert island, this is the album I’d bring to make the sand feel like home.

It’s a goddamn breath of fresh air—and somehow, it still leaves you gasping.
Like your ex.
Except this one strokes you like falling in love.

So fall. Hard. Fall before you die.
Because if you haven’t had a fucking breakfast burrito better than sex, you haven’t lived.