I worry that not unlike B. Coley, Earles won’t receive his due recognition becuz his best writing comes in small protein packets similar to the insects upon which smaller primates chomp so efficiently. His well-placed brushwork rests so comfortably - as if it hasn’t been labored over - like a primed-n’-ready casual rant waiting to leap out of our own bedraggled 30something mouths. It’s too easy to think he’s writing for us what we really mean to say for ourselves.
A significant difference is that so many of our bedraggled mouths need to be drunken before we feel like letting loose with such a piss-take. And when we do so we aren’t so much funny as snotty, probably less-informed and really-probably unsolicited. (Also we didn’t make the best album of 2008, as much a tribute to the Matador legend as HP Zinker, Teenage Fanclub and Moonshake.)
Seeing as how we are shuffling through an era in which no one seems to remember records that came out last week, I suppose it makes an unimportant degree of sense that no one remembers the mid-decade, laughably-misguided anti-rock (“Rock is Dead,” “Indie Rock is the antithesis of inspiration,” and so on) trend that unleashed several unfortunate offshoots upon our world. One of them was responsible for landfill upon landfill of insipid, guitar-and-various-drone-spouting diddle-daddle, quite a bit of which was indistinguishable from BOTH sides of this 10”. Entire labels were dedicated to boring the shit out of listeners who were once on fire with a passion for what the same underground gave them until it turned its back on rock. It doesn’t matter what the faux-raga guitar does or doesn’t do one of these tracks, nor does it matter what the sparse beats from some electronic shit-box do, or where they come from, or what they add to their track, because it’s not an addition if it simply joins a bunch of other instrumental afterthoughts that feel like nothing and speak to the problem of passing off a musical void as a “something.” This mouthful applies to each and every second of this 10”, as does the placement of a fucking Elk on the cover….
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