I feel like a piece of shit. This blanket just came out of the dryer, but the fresh smell is giving me a headache. My head feels stuffy, I'm depressed, and my throat feels swollen. I need a nap. But I haven't posted in a while and Valentine's day (bullshit angst day) is around the corner, so I'll delay my sleep for you, the royal reader. 'Cause I'm soooooo nice. Sorry, did you say something? I can't hear you over the sound of me fapping.
So yeah, The Antlers. Apparently Pitchfork feels that by giving albums by aspiring young artists a good review, they're kickstarting their career. It has an opposite effect on me, to be honest. It's always the same story: Pitchfork gives [band]'s debut/"breakthrough" album an 8, [band] gets a shitload of scrobbles for two weeks, then the hipster backlash kicks in. It happened with The XX, Merriweather Post Pavillion, and, yes, Hospice. I guess I'm not hip for know about them before Pitchfork 8.5'd them, but isn't being hip arriving late for old trends? I don't know, and I don't care. All I know is that Hospice is fucking haunting. I had it on in the background while I was reading an article about the Virtual Boy (ONM: a necesarry evil) when the track Bear came on, and I just had to stop. It's that good. While the vocals are pure, the static and the horns
in the background create a contrasting atmosphere. And then the lyrics. Oh Jesus, the lyrics.
"And all the while I'll know we're fucked/And not getting unfucked soon."
"Sylvia, get your head out of the covers/Let me take your temperature,
you can throw the thermometer right back at me/if that's what you want to do, okay?"
Just mouthing them makes me feel uneasy. If you really need music that makes you think, this is it. If you need to cry or release some demons, this is it. Bring a noose.