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.