Month: February 2015

They Did Me In

| Michelle

Some albums don’t hit you right away.
They sit there—quiet, waiting—until the moment your head and heart line up just right. This one came out about a year ago, but like all the best things, it needed time to find me. And when it did? It took me apart gently. Grime Kings is a phenomenal band out of Ontario, and their record Comp 1 (which I stumbled across on Bandcamp) hasn’t left my ears since.

They sound like a darker version of The Beatles that got lost somewhere along the coast—drifted into the grunge tide and picked up a few surf rock scars along the way. Their sound unfolds slowly, almost sleepily, but with this tight control underneath it all. Fuzzy, bobbing bass lines keep the whole thing anchored, while the guitars sway between nostalgic and eerie. The grooves are unreal—sharp when they need to be, lazy in the best way, and completely hypnotic. It’s unlike anything I’ve heard in a long time.

Truthfully, I had a hard time writing this review. Not because I don’t know what to say, but because I don’t want to move. This album makes you want to sink into a deep chair, close your eyes, and let your skull become a drumhead for every tone bouncing between your ears. I’ve caught myself swaying, foot tapping, lips twitching to hum along, and I just keep thinking—this is what sound was meant to do to a body.

If Sparklehorse had a dark child raised on fuzz pedals and shoreline melancholy, it might sound something like this. There’s something broken and beautiful stitched into these songs. Something that vibrates in your bones more than your brain. Comp 1 feels like a transmission from a different plane—low-powered and buried in static, but still somehow more alive than anything on the surface.

Put on some headphones. Let go of time. Let it carry you.

grime kings

Candy Mountain

| Michelle

Two reviews in one week? Who even am I?
Tuesdays give me time again—real time. Space to breathe, dig, fall apart, and get rebuilt by something unexpected. Music fills the void. It’s not just a hobby—it’s a second job I don’t clock out of. I sift through hours of noise, generic production, paper-thin vocals, and algorithm-spit garbage. But sometimes? Sometimes I find a diamond buried in the trash.

And this one—this little two-song single by DILLY DALLY—is sharp enough to cut me wide open. I’ve had it on repeat for hours. Obsessive doesn’t even begin to cover it. Her vocals—Katie’s vocals—don’t just hit. They bend me. Melt me. Whip me around like a leaf caught in some thick fog of musical bullshit and mediocrity. Her voice feels like it crawled out of somewhere deep and raw. If Björk and Dolores O’Riordan had the nerve to scream through their own ghosts, you might get something close. But Katie? Katie shreds them. She rips a new dimension open just by opening her mouth.

I can’t believe this was released in 2014. How did I miss it? Maybe the holidays sucked the soul out of me. Maybe I wasn’t ready to hear something this messy, this pure. But I’m here now, and this little time bomb of a single showed up right when I needed something feral and real.

The guitars are slack and sludgy—messy in all the right ways. Like a bedroom you haven’t cleaned in months, but it still feels like home. The melodies are buried under dust, but that dust has weight. It’s beautiful chaos. It doesn’t pretend to be anything it’s not. And my heart? It’s all in. Head over heels in a pile of sonic trash that somehow feels like treasure.

So yeah—love it or hate it, this site is just my personal signal flares from the trench.
And this one? This one’s burning bright.

Nothing Will Be…

| Michelle

Last night I had one of those dreams.
The kind that leaves you suspended—adrift in a half-formed ship, or maybe no ship at all. I was lost in the deepest part of the ocean, no land, no horizon. Just black water and 50-foot swells tossing my body like paper. The sky was gone. The tide turned my stomach. The kind of dream where hope doesn’t just fade—it never existed in the first place.

And then suddenly, this burst of sea rose up like a cannon beside me. I turned and saw an eye—easily the size of my head—staring back at me. A blue whale. Towering, breathing, present. I could feel its lungs underneath me, the rise and fall of ancient rhythm. And for a few perfect moments, I was no longer drowning. I was riding. Floating on something impossibly strong. Hope cracked the surface.

That’s exactly how the opening track of Father John Misty’s newest album, I Love You, Honeybear, feels. It’s the breath you didn’t know you were holding. A lift out of the dark, into a haze of major chords, winded horns, sweeping acoustic guitars, and unexpected electronic color. It’s a sonic swell that carries you if you let it. The production is rich—rounded, alive. This album breathes. It holds you. For a while, it even feels like it loves you back.

But like all calm eyes at the center of storms, it doesn’t last. As the album progresses, the edges fray. Familiarity creeps in. It’s clear Josh Tillman’s past in Fleet Foxes hasn’t fully left him—nor has the comfort of his usual tricks. Oohs and aahs, tambourines, soft wit, and major key safety. He evolves in inches. Not leaps. By the time the record ends, it’s more of a circle than a journey. Pleasant, yes. Surprising? Not really.

It’s not a bad album. It’s warm, textured, and at times genuinely moving. But for me, it didn’t earn a spot on the shelf. I won’t be chasing it down on vinyl.
Some rides are worth remembering—but not all of them are worth replaying.