How are there one hundred and fifty nine eight-fourths comments in this and not a single one mentioning the greatest song ever written:
"Titus Andronicus" by Titus Andronicus
Shame on you. Shame on every last one of you.
You're that guy in the horror movie who interrupts all the awesome unprotected sex and kickass drug use to tell the kids, "You're all going to die!" just a few minutes before they start getting stabbed in the face with soldering irons and glass unicorns, aren't you?
You guitar kids had your decade in the sun during the '00s. It was all angular, bouncy guitars or blown out garage theatrics. You even had a few extra years with all those lo-fi '90s revivalists. It's only fair that synths came back in a big way.
Stereogum, The After School Special
Next week's episode: the super special annual where we learn about not being touched in the no-no spot by teachers!
Puh-lease. Chili's is clearly the hipster version of Applebees! All those foreign beers! And Fleet Foxes playing while I eat my tostadas in artichoke dip~!
She made a comment about Pavement being snubbed. This is Stereogum. Almost everyone here is a Pavement fan. I don't see where the problem is.
Meanwhile, the only people making comments about her appearance were rubjohn, the other guy who fell in love with her, and you. That's three people. She got like forty upvotes. No one in that thread made any reference to how she looked. The fact that you think people only voted for her because of how she looks speaks poorly on you, or at least makes you look really paranoid. Seriously dude, I normally think you're a cool guy. You have a great taste in music. But this is getting weird. Chill the fuck out.
Is this supposed to be ironic? You attack rubjohn for being homophobic/racist, but you casually make an off-hand sexist comment without any inkling of what you're saying? Really?
Looks, kids. Here's the thing. We all started nodding out heads when bands like Tigercity and the dude from Tim & Eric started celebrating soft rock cheese. We all made allowances for letting the hippies into our club when we started digging d'Eon and new age music. We all loved how Bon Iver unironically got his Bruce Hornsby on a year ago. But...THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS! Dave Matthews is this generation's Bruce Hornsby, a guy who makes bland, inoffensive music that appeals to middle-aged house wives and advertising executives. Is that what you guys really want? A blog full of posters like in that one Adam Lambert thread a few months back. Because that's where this will lead.
There's nothing more romantic than a dude on a music website who uses a condom euphemism for his screen name trying to pick up some random girl by asking her to chat on Facebook. I don't see how you two crazy kids can't end up falling in love.
But Danforth, released from his piloting and keyed up to a dangerous nervous pitch, could not keep quiet. I felt him turning and wriggling about as he looked back at the terrible receding city, ahead at the cave-riddled, cube-barnacled peaks, sidewise at the bleak sea of snowy, rampart-strewn foothills, and upward at the seething, grotesquely clouded sky. It was then, just as I was trying to steer safely through the pass, that his mad shrieking brought us so close to disaster by shattering my tight hold on myself and causing me to fumble helplessly with the controls for a moment. A second afterward my resolution triumphed and we made the crossing safely - yet I am afraid that Danforth will never be -the same again.
I have said that Danforth refused to tell me what final horror made him scream out so insanely-a horror which, I feel sadly sure, is mainly responsible for his present breakdown. We had snatches of shouted conversation above the wind’s piping and the engine’s buzzing as we reached the safe side of the range and swooped slowly down toward the camp, but that had mostly to do with the pledges of secrecy we had made as we prepared to leave the nightmare city. Certain things, we had agreed, were not for people to know and discuss lightly-and I would not speak of them now but for the need of heading off that Starkweather-Moore Expedition, and others, at any cost. It is absolutely necessary, for the peace and safety of mankind, that some of earth’s dark, dead corners and unplumbed depths be let alone; lest sleeping abnormalities wake to resurgent life, and blasphemously surviving nightmares squirm and splash out of their black lairs to newer and wider conquests.
All that Danforth has ever hinted is that the final horror was a mirage. It was not, he declares, anything connected with the cubes and caves of those echoing, vaporous, wormily-honeycombed mountains of madness which we crossed; but a single fantastic, demoniac glimpse, among the churning zenith clouds, of what lay back of those other violet westward mountains which the Old Ones had shunned and feared. It is very probable that the thing was a sheer delusion born of the previous stresses we had passed through, and of the actual though unrecognized mirage of the dead transmontane city experienced near Lake’s camp the day before; but it was so real to Danforth that he suffers from it still.
He has on rare occasions whispered disjointed and irresponsible things about "The black pit," "the carven rim," "the protoShoggoths," "the windowless solids with five dimensions," "the nameless cylinder," "the elder Pharos," "Yog-Sothoth," "the primal white jelly," "the color out of space," "the wings," "the eyes in darkness," "the moon-ladder," "the original, the eternal, the undying," and other bizarre conceptions; but when he is fully himself he repudiates all this and attributes it to his curious and macabre reading of earlier years. Danforth, indeed, is known to be among the few who have ever dared go completely through that worm-riddled copy of the Necronomicon kept under lock and key in the college library.
The higher sky, as we crossed the range, was surely vaporous and disturbed enough; and although I did not see the zenith, I can well imagine that its swirls of ice dust may have taken strange forms. Imagination, knowing how vividly distant scenes can sometimes be reflected, refracted, and magnified by such layers of restless cloud, might easily have supplied the rest - and, of course, Danforth did not hint any of these specific horrors till after his memory had had a chance to draw on his bygone reading. He could never have seen so much in one instantaneous glance.
At the time, his shrieks were confined to the repetition of a single, mad word of all too obvious source: "Tekeli-li! Tekeli-li!"
I don't know if I'd say '70s horror movie. The opening certainly feels like something out of an Italian gialli film, but the rest seems more akin to '80s true crime horror movies like Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer or The Stepfather. Either way, love this band. Wish more acts like this would get attention over the twee affectations of the typical indie spotlight bands.
Sort of a Beach House-y vibe to it, although I'll readily admit that's an unfair comparison since it's being thrown around so often lately, but this is still probably my favorite single of the year thus far. It's just so gorgeous.
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