Teenagre – Visitor

Immediately swooping us into its pastoral gallop, ‘Visitor’ is an instant nostalgic injection. A rabble of breathy violins weave over a bone-dry bed of bass and ticking, spare drums. It’s a heartbreak mixtape side A opener, spooled languidly across a pensive prairie drive through Drag Cities and Dream Rivers. Singer Zuzia Juszkiewicz meets us at each verse with her ethereal creak before ushering us into the refrain, a cool and cascading hook: “I’ve come but I won’t be around for long.” Another trip around the circuit brings us to the bridge, a gorgeous plateau of soaring slide guitar that guides us back into a final refrain which revs and cycles pleasingly before – not even finishing her stanza – Juszkiewicz disappears abruptly. We’re stopped dead on the final syllable. The ride is over.

Pay attention for Vancouver’s Teenagre’s next trip to your town.

Lexander James – Eye Melt Ep


Lexander James is the newest name of Castledrum Records electronica producer Rob Ross. You can hear the prettiness of Flora and the knuckle-cracking chaos of itsagamble! in there, but there’s really whole a new emotion I haven’t heard in his music until now. A cooling resolution. A hymn for doing the hard thing. That song that plays in someone’s car as they calmly drive themselves and a hundred thou’ in drug money off the bridge and into the river.

Music for people who want to feel totally BA while running errands.

The Hours – Steady Glazed Eyes

‘Steady Glazed Eyes’, the first of a two song offering from Winnipeg’s The Hours, boasts a kind of primeval melody. The kind that has always just been - has quivered with protozoa, stomped with the sauropods, been gargled in unsteady medieval throats of those who first tried to crystallize emotions this immense, this wide, in soundwaves only. The lyrics of this cosmic number are nearly lost in halls of reverb. The boulder-sure rhythm guitar and drumming also disappear into fissures of skittering delay.

It’s not until the second track, ‘Horse Field Mansion Parties’, that singer Samantha Sarty’s woozy intonations focus and incant quite clearly the words “I’ve been doing this since before you were even born” and – reflecting on the monolithic seamlessness of this release – it’s very easy to believe her.

Soh Yung – Coastal Winter

If you’re like me, you’re studying and writing papers for the next two-three weeks and your mind is on full melt. You need that cool. Soh Yung, I’ve discovered, is an artist working out of Edmonton in the familiar and endlessly interesting space opened up by the whole witch house crowd a few years ago, and I have in mind particularly artists like Holy Other, oOoOO, and DROPXLIFE right now. Coastal Winter is a windy record soaked in heavy rain and empty spaces (especially on “Dreams VIP”). It has a consciousness of its own, which you are more than welcome to adopt for the 27 minutes this album envelops you. Crack those books. Close all other internet pages. Soh Yung; repeat.

Good luck.

Duns Broccoli – Creatio Ex Nihilo

Some people like Yung Lean. They should stop. They should like Duns Broccoli instead, cause he does something similar but with so much more substance and ingenuity. It is the entropic apathetic stream of consciousness rap that so befits our age. “I wish Obama never ruined hope [...] the lights are getting darker, the darks are getting lighter, whites are getting blacker, blacks are getting whiter, grey first lady, grey president beside her.” You’ll find this instance of culture entropy in “Smoke Pit,” a jam for which the hyper-minimalist beat is in and of itself deserving of merit and careful analysis. If you can dig “Smoke Pit” you will love the beat Duns deploys for “James Bonjas” where he starts “I’m sick of licking sledgehammer heads.” The stream of consciousness continues: “My thoughts glistening, bitumen, picture him, he’s so different, spit dope, distill it [...] barf, gargling scraps of burnt cartilage, in my car parked, carving nautical stars into my cardigan, _____, I stop then I start again.” This style of lyricism is the bane of weaker rappers with less interesting thoughts, but Duns Broccoli is more than equal to the task.

Duns has a swagger that doesn’t come from chest puffing but from a deep seated alienation marked by postmodern apathy and fragmentation, a Jamesonian fragmentation reflected in the seeming disconnection between one line and the next. It is a point Lukács and Benjamin have both made: in an industrialized (post-industrialized) mode of being, every moment is disconnected from its last by the utter repetition. Adorno and Horkheimer argue that this has entered into culture through the constant repetition of commodified formulas for entertainment production. But, as many theorists have argued in their various ways (Witkin, Adorno, Bourdieu, Lukács), art has this ability to reveal the contradictions, whether or not the artist is conscious of it or simply embodying the spirit of their time. In the case of Creatio Ex Nihilo, we are shown the repetition and dispossessed candour of modern rap and modern life, playing off raps formulas but inventing a whole new form ex nihilo for Duns to occupy on his own. He thus breaks with expectation and narrows our focus to encapsulate the whole of the genre and all its sad contradictions. This is when art stops being palliative and starts ripping bandaids off.

A moment of revelation: this is what life sounds like for the young of the 21st century. As Jameson describes it, the decentered subject no longer feels the anxiety of high-modernism—but that means they don’t feel anything in and of themself, just the ‘intensities’ of emotion that come from everywhere and nowhere, a host of itinerant zeitgeists that visit themselves on us like a curse. Youth in the 21st century is a decentered space of bitterness, overwhelmed by entertainment, constantly told to buy shit we can’t afford, told to get a job when no one is hiring, told to go to school just to keep us off the labour market. We occupy an age-class that has been attributed (and expected to manifest) a surface physical beauty (“sexiness”) in the death rattles of a 2400 year old epoch where the seen is the true. We are the age-class that is to vicariously fulfill all the repressed wishes of our parents: go wild, drink too much, take our shirts off, fuck around, stay out impossibly late, get into the right kinds of trouble, supply stories for the news, HBO, hollywood, the tired imagination of our parents. We are the age-class that is converted into the symbolic target of mass marketing, the ones who wear what you should be wearing, the ones who drink what you should be drinking, and yelp and board greyhounds and make up words and have tumblrs. But in reality this age-class is occupied by real people with real needs who confront a multitude of doors we are told to enter, each one resolutely closed by the generations that have preceded us with their fucked economics, their fucked politique, and their fucked ideals. Lucky are the few who don’t feel this. Cursed are the ones who feel it most strongly. If anyone wonders why so many young rap artists are starting to sound like Duns Broccoli, (though often not as interesting), just look around. Tolkien passed down this dictum from his throne of privilege: “Not all those who wander are lost”—it’s hard to be lost if no one is trying to find you. “Pretty nice guy; just wear black so you don’t talk to me.”