Category: Pop

Album Reviews 26/04/30

Khun Narin Electric Phin Band, “Sut Sanaen”/“Poet Wong Pt. 1” (Innovative Leisure Records)

This multi-generational psychedelic ensemble from rural Thailand is known for ecstatic performances that have accumulated the group a global cult following of sorts. Their forté is electrified phin music, that is to say its lead instrument is a sort of electric phin, which is similar to a lute but with a distinctive-looking head (the upper part where the tuning keys are). A full album, titled III, is due out May 15, but the two YouTube-accessible singles covered here will give the curious a fine idea of what their sound is about. The most recent, “Sut Sanean,” is the band’s take on one of the foundational melodic patterns in the musical tradition of the Isan people from Northeastern Thailand, which will probably ring no bells to readers, but suffice to explain that it sounds like it’d be right at home soundtracking an opium-den scene in a 1970s episode of Hawaii Five-O; there’s a perpetuity to the meandering soloing that’s comforting in its way. “Poet Wong Pt. 1” is slower, more tribal and melodically enchanting, characterized by soloing that would turn Jimmy Page green with envy. Fascinating stuff. A+

April + Vista, Traditional Noise (Third & Hayden Records)

Formed in Washington, D.C., in 2014, this electronic duo has refined a sound “rooted in curiosity, experimentation, and emotional candor,” this promo sheet tells me, whilst refusing to assign them a genre. Such elite-level publications as Newsweek and The Fader have also punted on classifying these guys, with the former going with “[they meld] electronic, classical, hip hop and ambient influences into something distinctly their own.” Now, I’d like to try my hand, since I don’t see any difficulty: It’s new-jack bleeding-edge trip-hop. There’s some classical in there, sure, and some Sadé and a whole host of different influences, but altogether it honestly doesn’t spell a new sound, just a (truly amazing and gorgeous) fricassee of sound that recalls such usual suspects as Zero 7, Portishead, Tricky and Massive Attack. To be sure, these two are master chefs at it, using only the best ingredients they can find, from soft bubble-dynamic incidentals to exquisite, subtle loops, all of which are pure heaven when April’s vocals weave into them. It’s electronic music for humans, a stuff that everyone needs to know about (and hopefully will). A+

PLAYLIST

A seriously abridged compendium of recent and future CD releases

• Awesome, we’ve already escaped the month of April with our lives, so it’s time to look at the first Friday-load of albums to be released in May, on May 1 to be precise! But first: I was a bit remiss in not mentioning the 25th Coachella music festival that went on during mid-April, which I mostly ignored, not because I wasn’t seeing any news about it (quite the contrary, since late March, half the stuff in my emailbox’s recycle bin has been from promoters, bands and public relations hacks telling me about Coachella appearances — like the one from disposable techno singer Lisa that I got trolled into talking about in the April 16 issue) but because I had almost no interest in the artists whatsoever. This year’s Coachella was — um, eventful, in case you missed it; Justin Bieber dragged an uncomfortable-looking Billie Eilish onstage to lip-synch “One Less Lonely Girl” at her; there was an appearance from Nine Inch Noize (i.e., Trent Reznor & Co. with Boys Noise, the latter of whom added nothing more interesting to goth anthem “Closer” than an over-extended electro-drop), and Karol G become the first Latina to headline one of the main stage’s nights. Other than that it was a Nylon-directed clickbait affair, with two headlining nights from Hollywood’s 2026 Nepo Baby Of The Year Sabrina Carpenter, whose 15 minutes should hopefully be up soon (she had awkward guest appearances from a bizarre array of A-List actors that included Will Ferrell, Susan Sarandon, Samuel L. Jackson, Geena Davis and, um, Sam Elliot; the whole thing came off like it was cooked up by the entire editorial staff of Billboard sitting around plotting in a smoke-filled hall, eating nothing but leftover cafeteria meatloaf until they came up with the right names). Sets from Röyksopp, Armin van Buuren and Yamagucci would have interested me, though not enough to give up my snacks for two weeks, so I didn’t attend, not that the trust fund crowd would have left me any VIP passes anyway (those sold out in minutes, which tells you about the bougie crowd that shows up at that thing and buys $12 Cokes), and P.S., I’m not expecting to be there next year either. And that brings us to North Carolina mixed-genre-pop-folkies Hiss Golden Messenger, whose new album I’m People spotlights the single “Shaky Eyes,” an AOR-geared tune that sounds like Guster possessed by ’70s-era Fleetwood Mac, or vice-versa; it’s the sort of tune someone would fall asleep to while waiting for their kid to try on new jeans at K-Mart, if there were still K-Marts around.

• Speaking of music to nod off to, Akron, Ohio, fedora-hatted bar-pop duo The Black Keys are at it again with a new album, titled Peaches, which opens with “Where There’s Smoke There’s Fire,” a tune that will make you think of Calexico if they had no pulse at all.

• Next it’s certifiably crazy ’90s alt-pop queen Tori Amos, whom we last encountered in 2025 when she surprise-released the Music of Tori and the Muses album as a companion work to her illustrated children’s book Tori And The Muses. Her new LP In Times Of Dragons includes the single “Shush,” which is of course composed of loud, overly bombastic piano cranked to 11 and a funereal vocal line that sounds like something Wednesday Addams would sing if her tarantula died. Allll set with this.

• Lastly it’s Fort Worth, Texas-based grunge-punk band Toadies with their first album in nine years, The Charmer. You young whippersnappers probably know as much about Toadies as you do Everclear, and no one could blame you. The new album’s title track is rugged, noisy, punkish and basically as unlistenable as ever.

Featured Photo: Khun Narin Electric Phin Band, “Sut Sanaen”/“Poet Wong Pt. 1” and April + Vista, Traditional Noise

In Trees, by Robert Moor

(Simon & Schuster, 372 pages)

“A tree is not just a thing made up of bark and leaves and sap and wood. At its core, a tree is not even really a noun. It is more like a verb.”

With that musing, journalist Robert Moor puts readers on notice that In Trees aspires to be a combination of qualities he ascribes to trees: “something inventive, exacting and long-lasting. Something wise.” He largely succeeds. In Trees entwines a decade of hands-on research — to include climbing trees, sleeping in them and protesting in them — with lyrical philosophy. The result is an exploration of everything even remotely related to trees.

If, Moor writes, “we could watch the full life cycle of an oak play out in a few seconds, it would look as violent as a fireworks display.” He delves into the three simultaneous processes that result in a mature tree — branching, pruning and gnarling — and proposes that all of life follows much the same pattern. “In one sense, they are nothing more than very big plants,” he writes, but they take hold of the human imagination in a way that other plants don’t, almost god-like in the way that they outlive human beings and provide for us.”

Moor has been interested in trees and their significance ever since he spent time at a monastery in India and visited the site of the Bodhi tree, where the Buddha is believed to have achieved enlightenment. (Moor describes the tree as “a huge ficus with low crooked pale arms propped up by metal crutches, like some kind of decrepit extraterrestrial.”)

But mild interest turned to fascination when he, like Thoreau, went to the woods to live, moving from a New York City apartment to a cabin in British Columbia. For a while it was enough to sit under trees and think about them, but one day Moor felt the urge to climb one, something he hadn’t done since he was a kid.

The urge, however, was thwarted by fear, and so he sought out an instructor, a British man who sees tree climbing as a lost human skill. Under the guidance of this man (who never wears shoes, except when rock climbing, and sees the destruction of a tree as similar to the harpooning of a whale), he comes to see tree climbing as a form of “rewilding” — rewiring the brain in healthy ways.

Later he travels to the World Bonsai Convention near Tokyo, where he considers the question “What is a tree?” in the company of people who snip and trim them into myriad shapes, and later he attempts to nurture a bonsai himself with fairly disastrous results. (After he failed to water it for a while, he writes, “it had taken on a raw-spined, mangey look, like a former show poodle gone feral.”) There was, it seems, no limit to his travel budget. He goes to Papua, in Indonesia, where a tribe called the Korowai lives in treehouses deep in a jungle and mysteriously open themselves up to anthropologists and writers gaping at their way of life; getting there requires more than four hours of walking. With his husband, he goes to Addis Ababa in Ethiopia, searching for the “very stem of the human family tree,” in the form of Lucy, the 3.2-million-year-old fossilized remains, weirdly named after a Beatles song. Then on to Tanzania, searching for wild apes, another component in the human family tree. This is a serious amount of branching out from the core topic.

Nowhere, however, does he stray so far from the Joyce Kilmer vision of trees, however, as when, mid-book, he departs on a story we don’t see coming: how, on a genealogical project with his father, they are confronted with the knowledge that they are descended from a southern physician who owned enslaved people and had children with at least one of them. This leads Moor to track down a cousin he had never known about, a woman who has Black heritage and is a family physician in California. They get to know each other and ultimately take a road trip to Alabama together to visit various civil rights monuments and even try to track down the grave of the enslaved woman who was the genesis of their shared history.

The story fits within the theme of the book in two ways: Moor’s exploration of family trees, and, in a more sinister way, the horrific lynchings of the Jim Crow era in which “Southerners deliberately refashioned trees into murder weapons — murder weapons that lived on for hundreds of years, often in places like the town square — to remind the town’s Black residents to remain subservient.”

It is a dark and poignant chapter that is a startling departure from the rest of the book, although Moor does do a fair bit of preaching about what’s been called the “Great Uprooting” — the abandonment of close-to-the-land lifestyles caused by industrialization and other forces. It was, he says, a change in both the soil and the soul.

Moor, who for the most part nicely blends humor and serious reflection, previously won praise for a similar book, On Trails, which won the National Outdoor Book Award in 2017. In Trees seems a sequel of sorts, fortuitously timed for your celebration of Arbor Day, April 24. You are celebrating Arbor Day, aren’t you? It would surely please Moor, who confesses that he hopes to “arborize humanity” with this book. This is his core advice: “Learn to branch out like a tree, to let go like a tree, to weather hardship like a tree, to rise above like a tree, to set down roots like a tree.” And maybe go climb a tree, as well, spider monkey. B+

Featured Photo: In Trees by Robert Moor

Strangers, by Belle Burden

(The Dial Press, 241 pages)

After Belle Burden and her husband bought a house on Martha’s Vineyard, they became interested in ospreys. Raptors that mate for life, the birds live near water, and a pair nested on Burden’s property, to the family’s delight.

The ospreys are a motif threaded through Burden’s new memoir, Strangers, born of a viral New York Times essay titled “Was I Married to a Stranger?” about how Burden’s husband abruptly moved out when she learned he was having an affair, leaving her to question whether she ever knew the man she’d been married to for two decades.

After the essay was published, Burden received shaming emails, some calling her a bad mother for casting the father of her children as a weapons-grade jerk. But she also got notes from people who said her story helped them get through their divorce. And she had always wanted to be a writer, a dream cast aside by early harsh feedback and a law degree.

Throw in Burden’s lofty pedigree — John Jay and the Vanderbilts are in her family lineage — and of course, publishers wanted her to tell more. The memoir has gotten widespread publicity, from People magazine to Town & Country.

But this isn’t so much a book about a celebrity divorce as it is a book about ordinary heartbreak. Burden begins by recounting the details of the evening when she listened to a voicemail from a man who said her husband was having an affair with his wife. She confronts James — the useless pseudonym she gives her husband (his real name is a click away on Google) — and he assures her the relationship is meaningless and will end. But the next morning he tells her he wants a divorce. “You can have the house and the apartment. You can have custody of the kids. I don’t want it. I don’t want any of it,” he says. Burden was leveled. As she tried to get answers from James, he grew colder.

As she wades into legal machinations of divorce, she reflects on their courtship and the life she had enjoyed until that point.

To the reader there are many red flags. James has a bad-boy history and a controlling nature: Three weeks after they started a romantic relationship, he said, “Tell me you love me” to her. When, after having three children and staying home to care for them, she gets a job offer, he decides the answer is no. He becomes increasingly obsessed with his work; she, increasingly obsessed with family life.

After James left, everything about Burden’s life was cast in a different light, even her custom of sending Christmas cards every year. When holiday cards began to arrive from married friends, she tore them up; they seemed boastful, she writes, and a painful reminder of what she no longer had. She vowed to never send Christmas cards again.

There is little in the way of mystery here, but for how the court case turns out — whether Burden gets to keep the two homes she bought with the entirety of her trust funds, or whether her husband, a hedge-fund manager, gets half of them. It’s important to note that James has told The New York Times that his recollections of some events are different from hers, as is his assessment of what kind of father he is to their children.

The real-time action in Strangers spans just the timeline of the divorce, from her husband telling her he was done to the finalization of the courts, the ospreys accompanying us all the way. This is a bit predictable, as is the self-actualization Burden reaches. No memoir of misery is complete without the realization that all the pain was somehow worth it. Strangers is well-written but also well-trod. B+

Featured Photo: Strangers by Belle Burden

Album Reviews 26/04/23

Hollan Holmes, Inside the Sound of Decay (self-released)

Nice surprise here. Usually when an album waddles in here claiming to be “ambient,” I expect to hear something chintzy and low-rent like Daedalus or whatnot (if you don’t know who Daedalus is, count your blessings), but wow, this Texas-based producer is doing a lot here, so much so that such zines as Sonic Immersion and Ambient Visions have sat up and taken notice. Yes, there’s a lot of barely filled space in the tuneage, but this is no Tales From Topographic Oceans; in fact I got the sense that Holmes was constantly ready to start rocking out, which he does almost in clockwork fashion every couple of minutes or so, tabling some next-level video game-soundtracking-ish gravitas, retro Tangerine Dream techno, or even more retro-sounding Return To Forever ’80s prog. Matter of fact, toward the latter, I’d say that’s what this record evinces more than anything else, a nod to ’80s snob-rock, not that there’s anything wrong with that at all, particularly given the state of the art. A+

Reba McEntire, “One Night In Tulsa” (Nine North Records)

OK, stay calm, hipsters, there’s a gag in here somewhere. Reba is something of a running joke in my household, given that my wife’s from Texas (I can get her to start twanging like a complete hillbilly if I walk around the house doing my Foghorn Leghorn-meets-Deliverance-guy imitation for a few minutes); like, whenever there’s nothing even mildly interesting on cable (when is there?) I ask her if she wants me to put it on Reba on CMT. Anyway, this (of course) overblown, over-produced, Celine Dion-style yell-ballad single is pretty freaking good if you enjoy having your lacrimal glands squeezed like lemons (I don’t, but the last Wicked movie did have me sniffling through most of it, which was somehow soul-enriching). But the funny bit here is that along with this tune, she’s releasing a bunch of new singles and mini-EPs and such over the next couple of weeks, which is evidence that the music industry is taking its product-release-schedule ideas from the rap world. Now, if that’s not hilarious, I don’t know what is. A

PLAYLIST

A seriously abridged compendium of recent and future CD releases

• The new music albums scheduled to be released this Friday, April 24, are on the docket, and, as always, I am full of hope that at least one will be decent when I preview them for you in this multiple award-winning music-preview column. Speaking of that, a lot of people message me with questions like, “Hey, man, what is your writing process, like, how does your tummy withstand all the horrible music you expose yourself to on a weekly basis, and plus also, P.S., I hate you forever because of what you said about the new ___ album, why are you so stupid?” Well, that’s a two-part question, so after endeavoring to triangulate the hypotenuse of the biscuit, I’ll reveal my writing process, which is a simple one: You see, ever since I was old enough to construct a run-on sentence — I think I was in second grade — every time I see a blank page, be it physical sheet of ink-ready whatever, like a priceless ancient Egyptian scroll, or a virtual void like a Word document window that’s empty except for a popup bubble of Progressive Insurance spam, I feel compelled to fill it with stuff. That’s the secret, folks. Born writers — and I consider myself to be one, given that I’ve published two obscure books and “penned” (now there’s a word that needs to die) a music column for 23 years now — don’t know what “writer’s block” is even like. Now as to the second segment of the question, the answer can be found within the verbiage of the first segment: I’d be a lot less stupid if 98 percent of the music I listen to every week in order to fill this space with stuff weren’t so bloody awful, boring and/or derivative. While I’m at it, I may as well go full meta with a confession: Like most weeks, today I tried to write most of the opening riff of this multiple award-yadda yadda before even looking at the list of new albums I’ll cover here. So let’s do that now, look at the list. Ah, here’s one that’ll make a nice curveball, put on your cowboy hats, fam, it’s Georgia blockhead Jason Aldean with his 12th LP, Songs About Us! Will there be a politically annoying video for the new single, “Dust On The Bottle,” like when he did the blockheaded video for his 2023 tune “Try That in a Small Town,” or is the new one just a normal drinking song? Yup, it’s the latter, they’re sitting on stools, just pickin’ and grinnin’, you know how it goes, the tune rips off the riff from Electric Light Orchestra’s “Do Ya,” and it’s about drinking, what more do you people even need?

• Meghan Trainor, now there’s a familiar name, the gal who did the novelty twerking song “All About That Bass,” were you aware of that silly thing or were you gainfully employed and happily existing without twerking songs? She grew up in Nantucket, Mass., which automatically qualifies her as a nepo baby; her parents are jewelers, on Nantucket, do you have any idea what a string of plastic Mardi Gras beads costs in a Nantucket gift shop, probably $8,000 plus Massachusetts tax! But wait, she’s not just a nepo baby, she’s also a one-hit wonder who hasn’t broken the Top Ten since “…Bass,” but maybe “Still Don’t Care” from her new album Toy With Me will break the spell — nope, it’s just “All About The Bass” if The Corrs had done it. Avoid.

• Is it OK to talk about Foo Fighters again (not that I want to) or is Dave Grohl still canceled for being creepy? Whatever, their new one, Your Favorite Toy, includes its title track, which is pretty neat if you ever liked No Wave music, and I hope you did.

• We’ll call it a multiple award-winning column with Canadian indie band Metric, whose new LP, Romanticize The Dive, features the single “Time Is A Bomb,” a listenable-enough song that’s part Garbage and part Echosmith, I don’t hate it.

Featured Photo: Hollan Holmes, Inside the Sound of Decay and Reba McEntire, “One Night In Tulsa”

The Heart-Shaped Tin: Love, Loss, and Kitchen Objects, by Bee Wilson

(W.W. Norton, 291 pages)

Not long after Bee Wilson’s marriage of 23 years dissolved, a heart-shaped cake tin clattered to the floor at her feet. It was the tin she had used to bake her wedding cake, and later to bake birthday cakes for her children. Now she was unsure what to do with the tin and all the complicated feelings it evoked.

Wilson started to think about all the other items that filled her kitchen cabinets and cupboards, and the sentimental attachment that so many held. Many had been passed down to her from family members or arrived as gifts. It is notable, she writes in The Heart-Shaped Tin, that “kitchenware seems to be one of the main forms of currency between grown-up family members, whether given by a child to a parent or the other way around. What is really being exchanged is an idealised memory of the family dinner table.”

We all have the equivalent of Wilson’s heart-shaped tin, some item that, whether used or not, is absurdly precious. Mine is an antique Coca-Cola-branded bottle opener that was attached to the wall of my late grandmother’s home and now hangs in my kitchen. It is rarely used since I hardly ever buy bottled drinks, but I would fight to the death anyone who tried to take it from me.

In her book — part memoir, part history — Wilson delves into the reasons for these attachments, looking at her own family’s treasures as well as the treasures of other people around the world. She explores the psychological and societal factors that influence what we consider priceless or worthless, from a relatively cheap melon baller that her sons fight over, to an iron pan that a South American woman is so attached to that she sometimes takes it with her on vacation.

“We like to think that love is a natural phenomenon that happens all by itself, springing directly from our hearts. But to live in the modern commercial world is to have thousands of desires and longings inside us without our say-so. You wake up with an urge to buy a giant coffee in a paper cup decorated with a green mermaid and you have no idea why,” Wilson writes.

Wilson is an English writer whose previous nonfiction books have also involved kitchenware and food (see 2012’s Consider the Fork and 2010’s Sandwich: A Global History). Her latest is a surprisingly engaging tour de kitchenware that takes us from an ancient ceramic container found in Ecuador that challenged what we thought we knew about the history of chocolate consumption to the mysterious kitchen sieve that Queen Elizabeth I is holding in a 1583 portrait of her. The vast range of items discussed goes from vegetable corers to canisters, from glory boxes (a kind of hope chest or dowry) to burial plates, the blue and white ceramic plates sometimes buried with corpses in England in the 18th and 19th centuries. All together, it is a cornucopia of fascinating historical anecdotes.

Wilson also helps to explain why fine china has been so important throughout human history, to the point where even people of modest means would work to obtain a full setting, one piece at a time, in order to honor their guests. She writes of the legacy of guilt that such household items like this leave when you realize the china either never appealed to you or has outlived its purpose.

“Every time I opened the cupboard that contained the Kutani Crane vegetable tureens they made me feel faintly strangled,” she writes. “These dishes had been handed down to me not just by my own father but by his father. When I looked at them, I felt weighed down by two generations of filial obligation.”

Wilson is a master of the interesting aside, as when she explores the control that the philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre believed is at the center of gift-giving. Nowhere is this a greater problem than in Japan, she writes, “which has a culture of gift-giving more extensive than any other advanced capitalist society.” The Japanese not only give lavishly to each other but are expected to give a gift after being presented with a gift. Moreover, next time you complain about the preponderance of “Hallmark holidays” in America, remember that Japan also celebrates Girl’s Day, Boy’s Day and Old People’s Day — all of which come with gifts.

Wilson also writes poignantly about the difficulty of getting rid of sentimental objects, even when you are psychologically ready to do so, and sometimes even when they are broken. She had finally packed up an expensive set of china, having decided to donate it to a thrift shop, when one of her sons protested her giving away those pieces of his childhood. She had better luck when she finally decided to give away the “Elmer the Elephant” plate her sons had eaten on as toddlers, but it wasn’t without pain.

It is possible “to hanker deeply after something which is neither pretty nor useful, just because of the person who once used it,” she writes. “The fact that no one needs it anymore is exactly what makes the wanting so fierce, because it reminds you of a time when you were needed too.”

I approached The Heart-Shaped Tin with some skepticism about whether Wilson’s premise could hold my attention for nearly 300 pages, but it did. Readers will continue to think about not only the stories the author tells but the stories contained in their own kitchens. B+

Featured Photo: The Heart-Shaped Tin: Love, Loss, and Kitchen Objects by Bee Wilson

Album Reviews 26/04/16

The Alarm, Transformation (Twenty First Century/Virgin Records)

This may or may not be the final album from this Welsh new-wave band under its original name, whose tuneage I’ve previously described as a kinder, gentler Clash or a more aggressive U2. Last year, bandleader Mike Peters finally lost his battle with the cancer that had been attacking him for 30 years; Peters’ son Evan is now fronting the band as “The Alarm Presented by Evan Peters,” while original bassist Eddie McDonald is leading “The Alarm 2.0,” but whatever, this may be it for The Alarm proper, a band that was maligned since birth in the British press for being derivative and pretentious and only scored one hit in the U.S. (“Sold Me Down the River,” which ripped off “Bang A Gong,” for the Gen Xers who can remember all that stuff). This one leads off with “New Life,” which, um, derivatively enough, is basically a jam-out version of Gary Glitter’s “Rock n Roll Part 2.” But most of the other songs are fine, like “Chimera,” a stadium-ready protest-stomper that’s a lot better than that U2 EP I reviewed here the other week, if you’re a fan who needs to read some faint praise. B

Anyma and Lisa, “Bad Angel” (Interscope Records)

You know, if there’s anything that gets on my nerves about the current timeline with regard to the music-tastemaking space, it’s the blinding array of collaborations between (mostly disparate) artists. I mean, I get that we’re in a post-band/post-album world, but every other day it seems like there’s a new pair of strange bedfellows barfing out a single that wants to squeeze money out of today’s youth, a cohort that’s of course more concerned with preserving what’s left of their mental health than maintaining their hipness level. Records like this one remind me of the one-off Marvel Team-Up comic books of my youth, which were cynically intended to, among other things, expose regular Iron Man readers to the improbable world of the Silver Surfer, that sort of thing. This tune, with its dark, melodic techno, could have just as easily been promoted as an “Anyma feat Lisa” joint and added to his next ÆDEN album or whatnot; Lisa’s just got more ethereal reverb/next-gen-Autotune effectage on her vanilla-diva voice here than usual. It’s not any more interesting than Chris Avantgarde’s stuff, let’s say, and furthermore — oh, wait, I get it, she’s headlining Coachella this year, that’s what this is about. Well played, Interscope, well played (eyeroll emoji). D+

PLAYLIST

A seriously abridged compendium of recent and future CD releases

• Friday, April 17, is almost here, my dudes, so what will you do to advance the cause of rock ’n’ roll in our republic on that album release day? Just look at all the new albums that are coming out that day, the bigly-est albums ever in the history of the universe, until next Friday! Look at all these new albums, and never even mind that it’s already too late to talk about The World Is To Dig, the new one from famous Weezer-for-dummies children’s band They Might Be Giants, who did the Malcolm in the Middle song at the dawn of the Aughts, before the last flickers of hope for humanity began to falter, remember those days, and all the faltering? Yup, it’s too late to talk about this new They Might Be Giants album, because that one actually came out on Tuesday, even though Tuesdays stopped serving as the traditional album release weekday in 2015, according to this pesky spamming Google AI bot, who says “Tuesdays officially stopped being the traditional day for album releases in the United States on July 10, 2015, when the industry shifted to ‘Global Release Day’ (or New Music Fridays) to align releases with Fridays in more than 45 countries, reducing music piracy and syncing with streaming culture.” Of course, that tradition has been obsolete for years now, now that everyone simply uses YouTube-to-MP3 sites to rip music for their mixtapes, naïvely expecting their virus protection software to — you know, protect them from viruses, which it can’t when people are practically begging to get hacked, but can’t we just stick to Global Release Day Fridays anyway? Is nothing sacred anymore, but belay that patently naïve question, nothing has been sacred since Walmart started making their people work on Thanksgiving starting in the 1980s (that is until 2020, when even Walmart realized how stupid that was). But let’s just pretend They Might Whatever weren’t the Walmart of children’s emo bands and were putting out their new album this Friday, what would I say about their new single, “Wu-Tang?” Well, I’d probably say that it was an uninteresting, strummy, mid-tempo children’s singalong that has no Wu Tang guest-feats on it, but it’s too late to talk about it, so let’s just move along.

• Canadian DJ/producer Tiga releases “Hotlife” this week. As always, “Hot Wife” is a fun and silly track, but this time it is slow and stompy and makes use of the “Bugatti snare” drum sound, which impressed one YouTube commenter enough to make a fuss about it, which was kind of stupid to see. The tune is a collaboration with German producer Boys Noize, who’s usually pretty selective about whom he collaborates with (which is neat and everything, but I’m sure if the Muppets called he’d be on the next flight. See how the Matrix works?).

• Honey Dijon (Honey Redmond) is a renowned Black American DJ, producer and fashion icon with an energetic DJ style that leans heavily on “golden-era disco, techno and house,” so maybe her new single “The Nightlife” from her new album Nightlife will be fun to listen to and have nothing to do with the old 1978 Alicia Bridges song, because my nerves can only handle so much today. Nope, this song is a torchy sexytime thing in the vein of Kylie Minogue, I don’t mind it.

• And finally it’s Canadian alt-rock band Arkells with a new LP titled Between Us. “Next Summer” is a pretty neat tune, catchy, the singer is really good in an old-school way, like a cross between Michael Bolton and the dude from The Outfield (just Google them, guys).

NOTE: Local (NH) bands seeking album or EP reviews can message me on Twitter/Bluesky (@esaeger) or Facebook (eric.saeger.9).

Featured Photo: Anyma and Lisa, “Bad Angel” and The Alarm, Transformation

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