It turns out that you don’t have to throw out the old forms; you just have to inhabit them with passion. Here’s a guy (and, so far, one excellent guest poster) who’s just started a new music blog, and he’s doing it sort of the way you’d expect, with a best of 2008 and Nick Hornby style rhapsodies on single songs. The writing, though, just leaps off the page. It makes what you’re hearing sound weird and new again.
Here’s what he said about Deerhunter’s new album:
I can never seem to remember having listened to this album. I think it’s intended to be that way. The tracks blur together in memory, wrapped in a luscious, dream-like haze. The lyrics escape into faint echoes resounding around an absent center. There’s something hiding here, which refuses to stick in the net of the conscious mind. Microcastles is the residue of a trauma. No matter how vehemently Bradford Cox insists that nothing ever happened to him, every song vibrates under the sedimentary weight of an event, a faint pulse that never stops, that resounds with the constant tremor of Deerhunter’s guitars.
The rest is here.
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