The F Plus - 32: Excessive, Overwraught and Annoying

Episode Date: November 7, 2010

Pitchfork Media, often referred to as either "tastemakers" or "douchenozzles", depending on the source, have done the impossible: They have built a successful business, relying almost entirely on indulgent record reviews. And inarguably, the man responsible for the most eye-meltingly pompous reviews has been the focus of tonite's episode: Brent DiCrescenzo. This is a man who was actually dismissed from Pitchfork for the content of his record reviews, a man who wrote a Beastie Boys record review that Pitchfork actually had to print a retraction for. Clearly, he is F Plus material.

Hey there, welcome to the F Plus Podcast. Terrible things, red-up enthusiasm. My name's Lemon. And I'm John. And Lemon, I've got a confession to make. It's past me now, but I just want to tell you about something I did, and I want to inform our listeners so they don't make the same mistake I did. It sounds dirty.

When I was in college, I did some Pitchfork. You? I know. I didn't know any better. There wasn't a good music community near my college. I was out kind of in the boonies. I just, you know, it boonies. It seemed cool and it seemed neat and I just got in

with the bad crowd and just started doing some pitch for it. That's not okay, John. I thought we had conversations about this. No, this is all in the past. I don't do it anymore. Sometimes I get those cravings, but I don't. I resist them. I've gone through a lot of detox and a lot

of things, so I don't worry about it. But, you know, I just wanted to let you know and maybe inform you about the dangers. I mean, there were some great times with it, you know, when you were riding high on the virulent screeds. All right. Tell me about the great times. Well, okay. Okay. So there's, you know, there was just, I, I, I got going on a little Brandon Stousoy and a little Brian Howe, but man, if you really wanted the good strain, you got it. You had to find some decrescenzo. Oh, the decrescenzo. You actually went to Harvey stuff.

Oh man. It was so, I mean, you'd think like it back in those days, you'd think they wouldn't start out that bad, man. The decrescenzo, it was like going straight on a whirlwind train of thesaurus entries and thinking you're great enough that authors and musicians would know who you are and writing to yourself like you're the best person ever. Now, John, I got to tell you something, which is that we have a podcast, which has listeners. Right now, there's a whole bunch of listeners going, I have no fucking idea what you're talking about. And to those people, I would like to say, welcome to a Pitchfork Review. What we have tonight is a series of Pitchfork Reviews, mostly by a man named Franz Yushinzo. Oh, yeah. Opin opinions on albums

and I wouldn't say his opinions are bad because that's sort of missing the point yes it's I can't describe it

it was just it's a feeling man and it's it's great and horrible and actually it's not really great it's just horrible but you kind of have to feel it, man.

As bad of a record of you as you have ever read in your life, you have never approached this level. Let's get to the readers. It's going to be hard going back, but I'll brave it. I'll brave it for the podcast. In the room tonight, we have Acer Acoato. The last episode of F+, reminded me of the one time I was in Brooklyn. Portex? Portex, proboscis,

quail, quaint, stupid. Boots Reindeer. Boots Reindeer sounds mostly like pet sounds. It's performed 50,000 miles underwater. And if you listen very closely, you will notice that this hot dog sounds like... My first album was completely and totally...

I don't even know. Jack Jack. Hi. Hi. Do that now. John. John sounds like a broken iPhone covered in the dreams of orphans.

Come Quads up. Yvonne? This is the part where I name drop a much more popular podcast. And Lemon. And his special friend, Billy Idol. Red Hot Chili Peppers. Californication.

I actually frightened friends of mine when I declared that I was looking forward to the new Red Hot Chili Peppers record. Dan simply replied sardonically, Dode. Bloodsucker Sex Magic was the first CD I ever purchased. Listening to a CD on headphones after a decade of cassettes was revelatory. Faint, echoing harmonies, popping bass bass

and crisp finger licking guitar swirled in my ears. In retrospect, I guess technology had a lot to do with my infatuation with the album. Me too. Now Californication sees the same players,

John Frusciante and Rick Rubin included, from the That album return. As expected, it's considerably better than the bone-stupid One Hot Minute, but not quite as funky-ass as their acclaimed 1991 effort. I have to ask you this, actually. This is an important question. Are there any other body parts which can be funky?

Like a funky neck. Or a funky foot. You can have a funky cold medina. That's not a body part. I have a funky leg. But wait, before we go any further, let's talk about Dave Navarro. Yes, let's.

Because he's not on this album. Exactly. Dave Navarro was a horrible fit. That's important because he's not on this album. Exactly. Dave Navarro was a horrible fit for the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Thankfully, he's off in some private velvet paneled studio pouring hot wax on his nipples. What? Look up wannabe rock star in the dictionary

and you'll find a picture of Dave Navarro's pierced nipples in School of Depeche Mode black nail polish. Yeah, nobody's ever heard of Dave Navarro. So you won't see Dave Navarro. You'll just see his nipples and School of Depeche Mode black nail polish. Yeah, nobody's ever heard of Dave Navarro. So you won't see Dave Navarro. You'll just see his nipples and his nail polish. But you can tell when you see those nipples that they're Dave Navarro's.

Dave Navarro speaks our human language by vibrating the rings in his nipples. So, weighing in at a stunning 85 pounds, the band's former guitarist John Frusciante, and his flavoring, tasty skeletal body rejoined for the Californication session. Ew!

In his off time from the Chili Peppers, John Frusciante recorded a couple of drug-induced solo mishaps and had a best-selling Italian novel named after him. The man brings a rucksack of real emotions with his guitar. He just carries it in the bag on the other side. He carries the guitar in the hand. It's like a hobo's bindle.

He just ties it around the head. He's like a drifter. I'd also wager my credibility that he's the best big-time American rock guitarist going right now. His fingers can effortlessly switch from the picking funk of I Like Dirt to the sculpted feedback of Emmett Remus to the tender, lovely, yes, really,

a tender, lovely Chili Peppers track, Porcelain, to the clever stadium-sized solos throughout. But best of all, he makes you forget about that crazy monkey on bass. He actually writes on it, but let's face it, the biggest obstacle in your enjoyment of a Red Hot Chili Peppers

album is horny crooner Anthony Kiedis. How does that work? Is that true? I agree with you, Brent D. Crescenzo. I'm going to agree with that. If you can stomach lines like Gorilla, Cantilla, Sammy D., and Salmonella,

up to my ass in Alligators, let's get it on with the Alligator haters. And to finger paint is not a sin, I put my middle finger in. You're good to go. Okay. If those lines make you wince like Pitchfork editor Ryan Schreber,

keep in mind that I pulled those two of 15 songs. How the fuck do you name drop somebody who nobody's ever heard of? Exactly. And who is your boss, maybe? Yeah, you name drop people

that you already know people aren't going to know who he is, so you have to elaborate. And who is your boss, maybe. Yeah, you name drop people that you already know people aren't going to know who he is, so you have to elaborate. If it makes you wince like my next door neighbor David Reynolds, keep in mind I pulled those from... The crux of this all, though, is that Brent T. Crescenzo is saying that

Anthony Kiedis is a bad writer. In a way, you have to be familiar with California to appreciate Kiedis' lyrics. Okay. Let's see how he justifies this shit. I mean, Los Angeles is shallow, sunny, fun, and tragic. Okay.

So in this age, unfathomably horrible forest is like, I did it all for the nookie, the nookie, so you can take your cookie, because you did my homies and bah with the bah. A five spot to anyone who can explain that one. Okay. You can cut the chili pepper some slack. Plus the sincere, hook-laden, mellow jams of scar tissue, other side, and road trippin'

more than make up for whatever knuckle-dragging Kiedis executes. Me too. That's the chili peppers. The chili peppers even gave us a single you can actually tolerate on the radio should be heralded. Tidus Executes. Me too. That the Chili Peppers even gave us a single you can actually tolerate on the radio should be heralded. I can't tolerate them on the radio. Longevity and rock music

is about as rare as hip-hop spellcheckers these days. Oh, for fuck's sake. Those are disguised racism. Yeah, that's great. No, that's an actual job. It's a freelance hip-hop spellchecker. My name's Russell Simmons, and this is a deaf spellcheck jam.

Well, the thing is, you don't realize is that Pitchfork editor Ryan Scriber is his black friend, so it's okay. Oh. That is not how you spell Hennessy, motherfucker. I'm sorry, there is no E in Patron. Do you got to make sure you spell yo correctly all the time. Yes, you

have to know how to spell yo correctly because it is 1992. Anyways, the idea of albums has given way to the force feeding of singles. Teens reposter their walls with the face of the moment more frequently than undercover advertisers play card perded up fences and buildings in New York.

That is a great sentence. Wow. Basically, the Chili Peppers are the closest thing we have to a Led Zeppelin today. What? Where the hell did he get to that from? I feel like my mind was just braved by that sentence. If you want quality commercial Jeep stereo headphones, I feel like my mind was just raped by that sentence.

If you want quality, commercial, Jeep stereo, headphones, stadium-filling champion rock that you can get behind, where else are you going to turn? Not to Eminem, you ain't. Oh, he went there. Brent DiCrescenzo, rating 6.8. Yay! And 6.8,

according to the rating key, 6.8 means has its moments but isn't strong. That's the.8 means has its moments but isn't strong that's the top end of has its moments but isn't strong yeah has its moments but isn't strong like that editor guy ryan schrieber right hey anyone you know what i'm saying all right we're gonna we're gonna do the only non-brent de crescenzo review of the night um before i paste the link, we're going to need three people. We're going to need George W. Bush, Al Gore, and Jim Lehrer. Oh my god. Oh my god. Okay.

Jack Chick is Jim Lehrer. I want to be Al Gore. At the drive-in, Relationship of Command. The following is a partial transcript from the third and final debate between Republican presidential candidate George W. Bush and Democratic candidate Al Gore. Jim Lehrer.

Okay, gentlemen, you know the rules as established by the Commission of Presidential Debates. The questions will come from citizens in our audience. You have two minutes to answer each question. Your opponent may then offer a rebuttal. I will then ask a follow-up question at my discretion. The next four questions

pertain to At The Drive-In, a music group from Governor Bush's home state of Texas. Uh, Mr. Lehrer? How is this relevant? But first, to Governor Bush, you will be asked by Clara Thompson,

where are you, Ms. Thompson? Oh, God, tension. Where is she? Oh, God. Oh, there she is. Why does that ring? It's necessary filler to establish the... It makes it feel like it's an filler to establish the... It makes it feel like it's an actual transcript.

Yeah. Guys, come on, method, keep in character. People wouldn't believe it otherwise. Keep in character. It's very important to me. Yes, Mr. Bush. Do you think that At The Drive-In's new album, Relationship Command, matches the intensity of the band's live show?

Thank you, Ms. Thompson. Mr. Governor of Texas, I'm proud of these young men from El Paso. I take both young people and the arts very seriously, as I think my record shows. But, uh, the question here, really, is who do you trust, and who do you think

will get things done? I'm a uniter, not a divider. Also, you can't hear at the drive-ins afros on record. Mr. Vice President. I'm glad you asked this question, Mr. Thompson, because this is an area in which Mr. Bush and I differ. While no album can ever approximate the complexity of the live concert experience, the sonic intensity of Relationship of Command

makes it a good second choice. Andy Wallace mixed the album, and if that name doesn't ring a bell, let me remind you that nine years ago, he mixed an album called Nevermind by a band called Nirvana. Of which Al Gore is a huge fan.

Yes. Thank you. Al Gore killed it. Oh, I'm sorry. It says hold for applause in my, okay. The punch has mixed brains to these guitars is impressive. So while Relationship of Command doesn't quite compare to seeing this group live,

you'll surely want to mosh dance in your bedroom while you listen to this recording. Mr. Gore, why do you mosh dance in your bedroom? AC, this is American politics. You're not going to understand. Moving on. Next question comes from Mr. Frank Lee, and it is for Vice President Gore. If you are elected president, what do you propose to do about the inconsistencies of relationship and command? Or what? You don't want to hear about the budget?

Fuck that boring shit. No? All right. Share about some crap-ass albums. Relationship and command. All right Alright then. Well, in that case, yes. I do think this album is largely inconsistent. Right now,

music is the most innovative it has been in the history of the universe. What? What? I've checked other galaxies. We have many, many opinions open to us in these times. Under the Clinton administration,

we have brought music into a period of growth, of expansion, of limitlessness. But I'll tell you this, if you want a country filled with records like Relationship of Command that are light on memorable riffs from bands steeped in punk

and 70s classic rock. I'm gesturing to you now, Mr. Bush. Oh, that's not a nice gesture. Here, let me get on my scissor lift so everyone can see. Governor. Creativity music is up right now, yes, but rock music for pure rock purposes has suffered under the Clinton administration. They're trying to muck up our loud,

old-fashioned noise with their Washington politics and fuzzy math rock. Now, these boys that sing it, either you love it or you hate it, but the important part is it gets by. It gets by on a handful of truly catchy anthemic rockers. One Arm Scissor is the most arena-ready

of the songs on own relationship of command. It has an infectious vocal hook. It has a punchy riff on the chorus. It gets into your subliminable mind. It makes up for the quavering effect of vocalizing on the verses. Oh, no. This improv night sucks.

Get off the stage, Bush. No, see, it's political satire, I think. I thought it was supposed to be a music review, but of course these sites never actually do anything. This is a review of Relationship of Command by At The Drive-In. I could tell. I just get the feeling that if this review were written an hour later, it would have been sent to Sanford and Son.

Whatever's on TV. You big dummy. It has an infection of vocal hooks. That I would read. Mr. Lair? The next. Can I just say one thing about that? No, I'm sorry.

That's. Okay, all right. The next question. That was a good question we just had the next question will be asked by ms sandra hartford and is for you governor bush ms hartford where are you mr bush do you feel at the drive-in front man Cedric Pixler's vocals are in need of reform? Sandra, you need to cut down on the smoking. In a world without Sandra Hartford.

Well, I certainly won't claim to have invented them. No, I think the man is very intense, and intensity is a great thing. If I am elected president, I can promise you it will be very, very intense. It'll be metal. It will be mud hitting down from the skies. Ms. Hartford, I'm glad you asked this question because this is an area in which Mr. Bush and I differ. Intensity can be a great thing, but not always. Cedric Bixler has two main vocal

styles now one of them is a punk rock bark that recalls Rage Against the Machine Zach De La Rocha the other is an operatic wall that resembles Ronnie James whoa that really doesn't

I'm sorry I'm doubting myself for some reason. It's a whale. The self-conscious aggression of the De La Rocha is a bit tiresome, but I find that the Dio chanting is odd and occasionally fun.

Take Sleepwalk Castles, if you will, for example. In the song's chorus, he's in full-on metal god mode. No, he isn't. You could even say his soaring pitch conjures the image of a youthful Tom Cruise

sitting in the cockpit of an F-15 fighter. You could say that. You could be a shitty person. But under Governor Bush's plan, it would not. What he proposes is that we strip Tom Cruise naked, kill his family, burn his house, and shoot down his fighter. Now, I see time when...

Mr. Gore, your time is up. I was thinking he was going to say, Mr. Gore, you're not making any sense. Thank you, Ms. Sandra Hartford. There will be no more need for you to ask questions. I got more questions, Jim. I got more questions. Now, I may just be a simple country accent, but I think... But it seems to me that this review is quite long.

Your time is up. Governor, do you have a rebuttal? Well, no. Then, on to the next question. Oh, good. This comes from Mr. Hannity Combs, and will be fielded by Vice President Gold. What song in Relationship of Command do you feel most encapsulates its strengths and weaknesses? Definitely Invalid Letter Department.

The slower passages of that song are not what the American people need at this time. With its 80s metal guitar tone and know-it-all spoken word vocals and honestly you'll find yourself wanting to hate it. I know that feeling. I certainly hated it, but the chorus of the song is

such a fist-pumping sing-along triumph that you'll find yourself returning to it again and again. And that's really this album in a nutshell. Alternately annoying and powerful. Governor Bush. In the great state of Texas, we have a saying.

People with afros should be shot. People need to have consequences for their afros. And that consequence is death. During my term as governor, i fried hundreds of men and it wasn't always easy you know sometimes switch damned or we get low on power or something but i know one thing there cannot be a harsh enough penalty for bad hair now technically at the drive-in have not committed a crime but what would you do if it was your hair what would you do if it was your four year old daughter come home from school crying with all them products dripping down her cheeks?

I'm sure you'd want the maximum penalty implemented. I know I would. Rating 6.1. By Mark Richardson. All the hair care products are just taking turns spraying themselves into the little girl's eyes. Oh, hey, but we got Ryan Schreiber here. Yeah, it's Ryan Schreiber. As if the rating of 6.1

wasn't evident from the review. I am reviewing Moon Safari by the band Air. Excellent. Analog, aquatic, bulbous, blue, breathy, cloud scraper,

crystal, casio, Blue. Breathy. Cloud scraper. Crystal. Casio. Dewy. Deliquescent. Ethereal. Efficient. Elastic. French. Gluten. Classy.

Gravity. Groove. Hotel. Holograph. Holland. Impa- Paid by the- I'm sorry.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm. Gravity. Groove. Hotel. Holograph. Holland. Paid by the word.

Iceland. Ingenuous. Japanese. Jingle. Juicy. Kitch. Kitchen. Kissing.

Lounge. Lazy. Liquid. Schmoog. Mood. Martini. Naughty. kitchen, kissing, lounge, lazy, liquid, smug, mood, martini, naughty, nylon, nymph, organic, oval, plastic, pompous, wazar, quantum, wikisonic retro robot synthetic sylvan terrycloth tinsel underwear

underground universe viscous vaporous velvety wet wanton waterfall

xylophone xenogenic xylophone young side yester waterfall, xylophone, xenogenic xylophone, young-eyed, yester, zipper, zespo, zodiac rock drips like sugary dew and

melted cheese from every second of moons before me. It's an album! Those were all the adjectives that went before rock I thought maybe it was like the graduating class Of an LA school or something In alphabetical order

Stop jerking off right to review God damn it Analog Smith, Aquatic Jones Close your eyes On an Antonini film And open them on 2001 Air is the perfect background music for minimalist architecture design. Shagging up against a tree in a field of sunflowers,

waiting in line for Space Mountain, drinking gin upstairs in a 747, circa 1990s, and 60s Swedish industrial documentaries. What the fucking Christ. This is a bit too cheeky for daily consumption, but fits in nicely next to your stereo lab and pizzicato five CDs. Play this on Valentine's Day for your sweetie

and go to work Monday with band-aids on your back. What? My name is Brent. I give this a 7.9. 7.9, which is above average. Above average. Enjoyable.

I really got that impression from that review. That, that, yeah. It told me how much he liked it. 7.9 should have been, like, above average. Brilliant. Beautiful. Cute. I can't wait to see what it... Can you imagine the record company having to

pull off a sample of that for their press sheets? And being like, Pitchfork describes it as dot dot dot Iceland in genius dot dot dot. If they were doing that, they'd totally just do

Zodiac Rock Drips like sugary dew and Melted Cheese from every second of Moon Safari. And then people would throw it away. Lemon, you say that, but I think Air actually wanted their album to be described as a grassy, lazy

Rococo yacht, so they got exactly what they wanted. Finally, someone gets our music. Yeah, but oddly enough, I couldn't find that section in the record store. England's Texas sculpts studio-perfect summer radio pop. Carbonated drumbeats provide a smooth... What the fuck is a carbonated drumbeat? Carbonated drumbeats.

Rococo. Yacht. Moving on. Carbonated drum beats provide a smooth, soft cocoa buttery surface like a well-tanned midriff. This is a reviewer Markov team. It spreads out between

a tight cotton tee and a pair of skin-squeezing jeans with the top few buttons haphazardly loose, allowing singer-slash-pin-up Charlene Spiteri's voice to dance across it like the brushing of delicately painted

fingernails around the navel and upper pubis. Ooh! Oh! It's unrelated news! I need to get laid really badly. Hold on. I just got to adjust myself here.

All right. I'm good. Okay. Tell me more about the pubis. I'm going to close the other tab. A deep discotheque bass line fills the sound nicely like two handfuls of pillowy grade-A breast. Did the farmer stamp it? Did the farmer stamp it to let you know

it is grade A? The USDA is one government program I approve of. What is this grade A breast doing? Well, you see, it's inflating the top of a red tank top. I see. That's what breasts do, right?

Yeah, they inflate. Well, sometimes. Well, in that one episode we did. Yeah, true. It's beer gas. These breasts, powered by beer gas. A six-figure studio budget paints a shimmer over the sound like an iced tea-colored tan.

Grains of fine white sand, and tongue-tip-sized beads of sweat. Spiteri's seductive falsetto slips effortlessly between post-coital, bangs-in-face tease, and professional, puckered, glossy, lightly separated lips like a Revlon-coloredlon commercial-tailored blend of Natalie Imbruglia, Prince, Donna Summer,

everything but the girl, and a sultry suede. What? Stopping for a second. I've never heard Texas in my life, but I'm going to guess that Texas is nothing like Oscar, Natalie Imbruglia, Prince, Donna Summer, everything but the girl, or suede.

With your powers combined, I am Brent Crescendo's boner. I like that it's also a list of girls that he wants to fuck, and Prince is one of them. It's also nice that he describes her voice as falsetto, which I'm pretty sure is reserved for males. Yeah, but according to that he also wants to fuck Swade.

Yeah, that's what I was about to say. Summer sun bounces along like a two-toned buttocks. A two-toned buttocks. A two-toned buttocks frolicking under a silk skirt while the title track slow jams erotically

like Spitteri rubbing down her body with her eyes closed. Oh my god. Jesus. Where is the music? What's the music? No, no, there's gonna be music in the next sentence. Don't worry, just hold on.

Oh, cool. Lips blooming to be music in the next sentence. Don't worry. Just hold on. Oh, cool. Lips blooming to reveal marble teeth and a sentient tongue. Tongue will conquer us all. Tongue. Tongue. How are you doing today? Thanks, Tongue Tongue. Can you brush me?

I want some mouthwash. Really, there's more to this music than the singer's looks. Really. Stop looking at that. She's out of your league. Give me that back. I want the artwork. And I'm Brent DeCrenzo.

I still can't pronounce his last name. DeCrenzo. DeCrenzo. DeCrenzo. Just make up something. Yeah. DeCrenzo. And I rate this album

a 4.0. What? That's a 4.0. He was about to stick his dick in the draft here and it's like only 4.0. Which is just below what Bad Outweighs did by just a little bit. Bad Outweighs is a good little bit bottom end of that too was he wearing beer goggles when he listened to this

I don't get it he looked at the album cover and then he wrote the review and he actually put the album into the CD player and then he gave it the rating exactly hey AO I have a question for you I have an answer for

you how good are you at reading Icelandic oh I I'm sure I'm terrific at it sigil Ross a JT's bridge on Laysa Icelandic lore tells of the hidden people who live in the crags and lava of jagged mountains. Descended from the ancient guardian spirit, the hidden people come in many forms. The tiny blomalfarl dwell in flower blossoms while the common blomalfarl reside on farms. But even in this modern age of cell phones and helicopters, Icelanders continue to believe that the

hidden people are still out there somewhere prancing about in period clothing. Construction workers will even curve roads around rumored dwellings of the hidden people. How can a modern people find faith in such fantasy? A heavy cloud of Norse

mythology and a breathtaking raw landscape explains most of it. a heavy cloud of Norse mythology and a breathtaking raw landscape this explains most of it plus the indigenous music of Sigur Rós can only perpetuate such religion the album you heard me it's the indigenous music

it can only perpetuate such a religion do you have a problem with that? I have no problems with anything good good answer because I want to tell you Do you have a problem with that? I have no problems with anything. Good. Period. Good answer. Because I want to tell you, that album, that album begins submerged. Sonar pings echo from liquid feedback.

Oh, here we go. That's better. It's like an ocean in its volume. Soon, a cathedral organ moans. Wire brushes drum in a sinking case. A violin bow sobs open a mouth of massive guitar, spreading noise in clouds of blood. Siren yawned, Thor Birgeson sings through every orifice.

What? Wow. Wow. Stench. Do they still chew her? I want to see that. Now that's talent. His ass is so in tune.

His microphone just looks like a fucked up menorah pointing at every one of his organs. Well, you know how they got 5.1 surround sound speakers? Apparently they got 5.1 surround microphones. Did you know that Siren John Thorne Bergeson may even have gills? Oh, my gosh. He sits in every orifice, including gills, perhaps, creating the most inhuman vocals ever heard in rock. Though Skywalker's sound could attempt a Chewbacca-esque approximation

by blending whales, Jimmy Engnig, cherubs, Bjork, heard in rock, though Skywalker's sound could attempt a Chewbacca-esque approximation by Blending Whales, Jimmy Engnig, Cherubs, Bjork, and the blue alien from The Fifth Element. The song ends in an accelerating heartbeat that breaks into palpitations. Sound fizzles out. You're

dead. Really? I don't have to listen to this shit anymore. So now that I'm dead, what's the afterlife sound like? Well, I'm gonna tell you. A string section waxes as the album moves from Sven, Sven,

to Engar, to Staralfur. The chamber instruments flutter around skeletal drums and sepulchral bass. This music teeters to touchstones and classical as much as Radiohead, like Orff composing Carmina Burana for E-Bow at absolute zero. What? Well, that makes sense to me.

I get that. That guy got two points. He got two points for that because he says sepulchra and Radiohead, and in the same fucking sentence. The song breaks into brittle acoustic interludes, where Bergeson's vocals frost through your speaker. Yet, like Icarus Triumphant, the album keeps taking you higher or deeper, depending on your perspective. Icarus fell and died. Yeah, but what if he didn't fall

and die? I'm hoping that I fall and die while I'm listening to this. But what if he didn't? In Norse mythology, he didn't fall and die. He just became Sigur Rós. Oh, okay. Oh. Now you know.

Yeah, I remember Icarus. Icarus' son, he was pretty popular amongst the Icelanders or something. I want to hear about how this song's incomprehensible name sounds. This need battery. Maybe it's nigh battery or nigh battery. You know, whatever. Nigh batteries. And there's something else with accents on it.

And it opens with a disjointed band of muted horns. They deliquesce into chrome swirls of tinnitus and massaging bass. Or bass if you're toast. Massaging bass. Eventually, the song erupts

into flaking layers of hissing drums. Sub subtle bebop drums and Kjartan Sveinsson's Fatty Rhodes piano kick up dust on Kjartan Hamast while Ferguson rubs the sleep from his eyes well that D

symbol is a thorn it's TH I don't know that much Olsen Olsen Ferguson rubs the sleeps from his eyes. Yes. Some guy plays a guitar while some dude picks like spinach out of his teeth. Fuck it. Whatever.

Olsen Olsen is simply the most soul crushingly beautiful piece. This Elton masterpiece unveils Mogwai's true rock for its soulless academics. unveils Mogwai's true rock for its soulless academics. To term this music post-rock would be an insult. So go, Ross. Our pre-whatever comes this century. I see.

Even he couldn't think of a fancy word to put there. We're going to get a new type of music and they're pre-whatever that kind of music is, alright? This is not... Piano, flutes, horns, feedback, and that godly, amazing voice. Scrubs souls pure

with the black volcanic sands from the beaches of Vík. Birgeson's invented a lyrical language of Hopelandish, maybe crying in tongues or even plain gibberish. Is that what you're writing this review in? Is this all in Hopelandish? Yes.

I'm losing my Hopelandish. But sheer emotions like this cleanse as universally as sodium lauryl sulfate. Yeah, I'm smart. I are no big words. Singer Ross made this bombastic claim on their website. We are simply going to change music forever. And the way people think about music, and don't think we can't do it, we will.

The fact that they're both scored hits in Iceland with this spectacular orchestra and soul speaks of both their power and the credibility of the natives. The alien angel fetus pressed in silver ink on the cuffs is the perfect logo.

He can effortlessly make music that is massive, glacial, and sparse. I think that sentence needs to be read normally. So the sheer awesomeness of it gets across. Brett morphed into his hidden people form. Yeah.

Sigur Rós effortlessly makes music that is massive, glacial, and sparse. They are hidden people. Okay. That doesn't describe music at all. Children will be conceived. Wrists will be slashed. Scars will be healed. Hey, children will be conceived. Wrists will be slashed.

Scars will be healed. And gibberish will be read. I mean, and tears will be stretched by this group. They are the final band of the 21st century. Oh, for fuck's sake. What'd you rate it? What'd you rate it? I rated this 9.4.

As amazing as amazing can get. No. Yeah, it's amazing. Below spectacular. It's on the upper bounds of amazing. It's not spectacular. Yeah. But it's the maximum amazingness.

Yeah. If it were even 0.1 more, then it would be spectacular. Now, we're not going to do the entirety of Kid A, because it's very long. You don't say. It's twice as long as that one. Oh, so that's Brent and Chris.

Yeah, and it's only half as long as his final review for Pitchfork, which was the Beastie Boys to the Four Burrows. Oh, that one's so great. Yeah, and it's almost entirely about him and a radio head thing, and it has pretty

much nothing to do with the Beastie Boys album. It also has nothing to do with actual facts. Well, yeah, and after shortly after Pitchfork Pitchfork Pitchfork Pitchfork is their dating site. They took it down.

They published a retraction of eight factual errors in the review that were posted. Wow. So could you say that this guy killed Pitchfork? Pitchfork did it to himself and then became very successful somehow. If he killed Pitchfork, he would be a fucking hero. We're not going to do the Kid A review,

but I am going to read the best sentence from it, which is the best sentence from Brett DiCrescenzo's entire opus. Really? You think it's better than lazy, lycanthrope. Yeah.

Yeah. It's better. It's better. This is, this is the first sentence of the final paragraph of the like 2000 word kid, a review. All right. Everybody ready?

Ready. I think so. Got the gun to my head. Got the alcohol. I'm all set. The experience and emotions tied to listening to Kid A are like witnessing the stillborn birth of a child while simultaneously

having the opportunity to see her play in the afterlife on IMAX. You know what the sad part is? He probably took a lot of time to think about what he wanted to write. Okay, so it's got to have some tragedy in it, so let's have a stillborn child. But then it's got to have some joy, so let's have a stillborn child playing on an IMAX. It's got to have a copyright, so let's throw IMAX in there. You know, I got to say with Brent, he's one of the few people I could think of where

if it turned out that he were just high all the time, I would have a better opinion of him. That would improve my viewing of him. It proves that he doesn't get high with friends because if he got high with friends... I think I know why. His friend would say,

no, that's stupid. Don't say that. Please don't write it down. This album is just like seeing your dog get decapitated, but then he springs back to life and invites you to your favorite amusement park and you get a discount because he has no head. Which part gets a hell of a drop? Isfahan, would you like to do

a more recent Frente Crescenzo? Yes, sir. This is from July 20th. Oh, God, he lives. After being quit fired from Pitchfork. Now he writes about Pitchfork. Big Boy plus payment at Pitchfork Music Festival.

Live review. In hindsight, it was a bit of a lose-lose situation. Big Boy had to play outcast songs because, well, there's not much else people want to hear. Like he said in our interview, people would throw eggs if he didn't give us So Fresh So Clean. But in doing so, he underlined how crucial Andre 3000 is to the duo's appeal. Chat boards have been recently filled with, Big Boy is better than Andre 3000 arguments of late, mostly because Big Boy is active and swimming in praise for his solo debut. I'm not here to say Andre 3000 arguments of late, mostly because Big Boi is active and swimming in praise for his solo debut. I'm not here to say Andre 3000 is better, although he's always been more my style.

No, the two are yin and yang, equally crucial to the group. Duh. Even though he rattled off every conceivable outcast classic, Elevators! Player's Ball! B.O.B! Watching Dre on the video screens left a hole in my gut. Dozens of songs were played in medley fashion.

I was reminded of seeing Prince a decade back, who similarly showcased a godly treasure of songs, playing a bit of each for just a couple minutes, before flowing right into the next. Yes, it's impressive, but breathless and somewhat disengaging. That being said, it was still one of the best sets of the festival. It's friggin' outcast music. Ooh.

It's friggin' outcast. Q.E.D. Right? Stephen Malkmus is such a prankster. As with many pavement shows in the 90s, Ryan Murphy of Drag City, the label that first put out the band's records, came on stage in his rockin' Ryan Murphy persona, completely pulling one over

on the entire crowd. His Andy Kaufman-esque shock jock DJ routine. You thought in his Rockin' Ryan Murphy persona, completely pulling one over on the entire crowd. His Andy Kaufman-esque shock jock DJ routine had me rolling. People were screaming at Guy and booing as he led them along with blatant sarcasm like,

people need to steal music from these major labels like Merge and Drag City, and Pitchfork is the minor leagues for Lollapalooza. I was cracking up. I enjoy uncomfortable humor of that sort, but it's understandable that people flipped out, an indicative of Pavement's entire set. Malcomus was recreating slash revisiting something that nobody here remembered, and the frontman slash guitarist seems to be genuinely confused as to why people are now reinterested in his band. I caught pavements last two hours and they were pro slick.

Except for Bob Nastanovich, who I'll get to remember that radio head associate, Nigel Goddard produced the last record. The slacker tag was bullshit. Anyone who's seen Malchmus lately can attest to that. His new band, The Jicks, are Grateful Dead-like on stage.

The Portland, Oregon dweller is a killer guitarist. However, for some reason, Pavement has decided to play up the Slacker stereotype. Drawing heavily from the band's early catalog, Pavement played like 40-somethings trying to recapture the sound of being 20. I certainly got a kick from

Malcolmus calling out a dive restaurant by our office. Has anyone here been to Beef and Brandy? He asked. You should get the beef with the brandy. Oh. Oh. There's nothing worse than the concert reviews that... There's nothing worse than the concert reviews

that... There's nothing worse than concert reviews. Well, yeah, I know, but things that the singer said on stage that were sort of humorous. I don't know. I think things that the reviewer thought while he was at the concert is worse.

I don't know. I think the worst of all, the worst thing in a concert review is being Brent DiCrescenzo. If you can avoid that, then you've got major points on my part. I'm as God made me, sir. Hey, Brent, did these guys know what they're doing? These guys know what they're doing. Mark Eibold is in Sonic Youth, which leads me to believe they're slouching on purpose. youth, which leads me to believe they're slouching on purpose.

Everyone but Nastanovich, who, like Murphy, was another old-school pavement element to which people who grew up on only the records were not accustomed. Nastanovich is a hype man, essentially. Like the flavor-flave of pavement. Really?

Wait, don't believe the hype. Don't believe the hip. And at Pitchfork, he was mixed way too high, screaming and shouting over the songs, even filling in for Malchmus, who announced after a few songs that he'd lost his voice. Gulp. The song selection was fantastic,

and folks sang along for it. Yes, Smashing Pumpkins and Stone Temple Pilots still get name-checked and ripped in range life. Perhaps it was because it was pitchfork, and with all the lo-fi going around these days, Malkmus felt responsible and obliged to play along. I asked a young co-worker what she thought and expected. I just wanted them to sound good, she lamented. What she thought and expected. Malkmus could have sounded good, had he so chosen.

If only the Allman brothers were trendier with hipsters than Ariel Pink. Kumquat, Kumquat, I want to give you a choice. I think we have one last thing we can do here. Your choice is ruminations on the new tracks from the re-edition of Exile on Main Street by the Rolling Stones. Or two. Okay, that's the first thing. Or an obituary for the co-founder of

Wax Tracks Records. Wax Tracks? Wow. Wax Tracks. There's gotta be humor in obituary. Yeah, I'm gonna have to say obituary. Alright. Alright, because I love

when people write obituaries and make it about them. Oh dear. Wax Tracks Records. Co-founder Danny Flesher dies. Hosted in music by Brent DiCrescenzo. January 13, 2010. God damn it.

Chicago has birthed several genres of music. Electric blues, house, juke. Yep. We can make a strong case for industrial, too. Because of the work of legendary local label Wax Trax. In the early 80s, the pioneering dance imprint released early 12 records by Ministry. Wax Tracks. Revolting Cox. Today we learned that Wax Track's founder, Danny Flesher, died of unknown causes. His business partner, Jim Nash, passed away from AIDS-related complications in 1995, in a totally unrelated sentence.

All right, well, well done. Well done, Brent P. Crescenzo. That was a timely and very classy obituary. I assume you're done, so let's just get to our next thing. Well, I'd have to interrupt you there because I'm not. Industrial gets a bad rap. Oh, what a surprise. Most think of it as the sound of

saws against sheet metal as listened to by Germans with shaved heads. Oh, dear. You're nihilist, Johnny. Wax Trax put out many wonderful seminal releases.

My favorite has to be Underworld's Dub No Bass With My Head Man, a hypnotic, dubby, psychedelic dance masterpiece. Like many American kids seeing Front 242 at Lollapalooza in 1993, not to mention Wax Trax, indebted 9-inch

nails a couple years earlier, was my first exposure to electronic music playing like rock and roll in his rent Fresner, the Knife, Dubstep, etc. Wax Trax is like he lived that guy died through him.

This is no longer intelligible just so you know. Basically, even the words you're saying, they're just molding together. It's like an amoeba of sad and... What an asshole! I just like to imagine him delivering a eulogy. What can be said about our poor departed friend? Once I saw Radiohead, and that was really cool.

His dad's funeral. I remember my fourth birthday. My dad gave me a CD player. I bought a CD. Let me tell you about it. Which was Blood Sugar Sex Magic by the Red Red Chili Peppers. God. Oh, no.

I don't know if you guys knew this, but on August 14th, 2005, Brett DiCrescenzo decided to review the Doobie Brothers. Oh god. And I'm not going to read the whole thing because I would not like to shoot myself in the face, but I'm going to

read you the second paragraph. In the pantheon of American rock, the Doobie Brothers stand undeniably ensconced as the 11th most important brothers group of all time. Nope, don't worry. You don't have to speculate Behind only the Everly Brothers The Neville Brothers, the Walker Brothers The Isley Brothers, the Luce Brothers

The Brothers Johnson, the Palace Brothers The Dust Brothers, the Blues Brothers And the Smothers Brothers Easily bettering the Blues Brothers 2000 And the Pernis Brothers Still touring strong to this day On the circuit of grilled and smoked livestock festivals, the Doobie brothers

occupy the much-needed space between the less hirsute eagles and the more martini-greek geek Steely Dan. Steely Dan is martini-greek? Yes. After passing on music criticism, I, too, had been relegated to critiquing the viscosity,

finger-tinting, and umami of barbecue sauces at state fairs. Oh, yeah, you were relegated to critiquing the viscosity, finger-tinting, and umami of barbecue sauces at state fairs. Oh yeah, you were relegated to it. Yeah. Oh, your pickles are... Remind me at a time that I was in Venice. Your pickles sound like hard rock. I must have more. Your pickles are luscious, inviting,

and deliquescent. I cannot imagine a better pickle except uttered from the lips of a swan sailing on the oceans of young child. This gherkin reminds me

and invokes visions of a Valkyrie coming forth from the skies plunging a sword into my chest turning it and then shooting up on my blood. Also you too. Oh my god, this hot dog sounds like Leonard Skinner.

Alright. He's not done. It was a couple weeks ago at the IABBQ-endorsed North Iowa Up and Smoke BBQ Bash in Mason City, Iowa, where I fell in love all over again with the Dube's Hickory Smoked Blue-Eyed Boogie Woogie. Team Wrecked Flats' frankly mediocre pulled pork was rolling on my tongue precisely when the cool sounds of black water suddenly washed down the cries of dying swine and playing children

wafting from the impromptu abattoir in Tuttle's own tent. What? The fuck? I recognize that there's English involved here. and there we go something approaching an hour of whatever in god's name that was uh john what do you think of him this week oh i just learned the depths of horrible pitchfork writing you know i mean i wasn't being just totally, that wasn't totally just a setup at the front.

I actually did read a bit of pitchfork back when I didn't know any better. I guess I never read much of Brent DiCrescenzo, or I just glazed over it because I'm just like, God, I'm just numb at this point. It's just so bad. And it's not even bad, like, it's just a bad music review. It's just horrible in every single way i will i will i will give i will give it this tiny tiny little bit to him which is that which is that um when i was a

teenager i i did you know work for music magazines and did actually record reviews um and they were bad and they were pointless and you know you sort of you write these record reviews and you go i'm writing something but nobody's reading it. It's just a way for free CDs. There's really no point. And so you just start to kind of fuck around. And I get that, and I totally get how that happens because you're writing for nobody. You're writing, nobody will read this.

But on the other hand, you're writing for nobody, but then you simultaneously think you're important. That's where the disconnect kind of... Nobody's ever going to read these words, but I'm really good at them. I know, it's just... God, what do you say? Okay, yeah, conceding that, like, yeah, nobody's going to read it, just fuck around.

Even then, if you write this, even just in that context, you're just fucking around and nobody's going to read it. And you write this and still think it's okay? That's still pretty horrible. You're a horrible audience to your own writing, if you think that's the case. As a parting note, I'm just going to say the whole idea of a concept review of an album is just so virulent and it's on its own. And the fact that he just stuck with that. Yeah.

He's an amazing human being. Anyways. The website is always thefbl.us. And on the website, of course, you can submit content. Please never, ever submit more things from Brett DeCrescent. God, we're done. We're so done. That's enough.

We're not reading anymore. Yes. And until next week thanks a lot for listening thank you bye-bye the next two reviews we're just we're only going to do the first sentence of. So somebody just read the first sentence of this. Over the last few years, Luscious Jackson have gone from being Luscious to Jackson. Oh, God.

Wow. Fantastic. This is my favorite. Oh god Wow Fantastic This is my favorite I accidentally got the tabs For my pitchfork page and my blog Mixed up Boots I have to argue with you here That while the first sentence is great

I think it's worth reading the entire first paragraph Oh my god I think the last paragraph has some merit as well. Okay, well, Stug. Last one. Stug classic. I visited Venice. Along one of the main canals of the Dorsoduro,

the southern peninsula of the city, I discovered a building, defaced in green graffiti. It read, Don't believe the heap. The hippie. The hippie. The hippie. Something in the combination of the innocence

of an Italian's misspelled English and the cosmopolitanism of punk cliches made me chuckle. But after listening to the over-anticipated third album from Underworld, I went to hunt down the mysterious Venetian, Riffrath, author of The Scribble. I picture him in a beret, scarf, and JNCO pants and kiss him.

Uh-oh. But he is brilliant. Oh. You see, you shouldn't believe the hype and furthermore, don't believe the hip. Oh, I never do. Oh. Oh. I want to kiss this.

I'm going to make a bad pun, but first, a paragraph. Brent Crescenzo. I also want to kiss this Italian stereotype. I bought Underworld's album. After that, I wanted to molest European children. You really need to read the second sentence of the last paragraph.

Oh, no. Underworld have crafted a deeply agoraphobic record that demands the ambience of neon-lit city streets, the back seat of a boxy Japanese import, or the flesh-pressed dance floor of a club's with names like Fuse, Fix, Flux,

Fac, and Flick.