Pre-ascension elegies are Bradford Cox's stock-in-trade, and this one—in which the Deerhunter/Atlas Sound overachiever daydreams about divesting himself of earthly trappings as rubbernecking copters circle like buzzards—may be his best swoon yet.
Mark E. Smith is like a no-rent James Brown, isn't he? Slogging on and on, and thank God for that. This title is false advertising, though: Only the first third of this chug-a-lug strut, all throbbing-goose-egg guitar and infernal garage pulse, sounds like it was recorded in a different dimension. Somehow you barely notice when the mix eases into normal volume levels and Smith's Tourette's prattle is all of a sudden foregrounded.
Whether by design or happy accident, Marissa Paternoster's paean to withering-on-the-vine camaraderie sputters into symbol incoherence on both lyrical and sonic levels. The verses devolve into melted film-reel blotches; the music gearshifts from rev-up in-the-red rawk-out into seeing-red incoherence. The trick? You can make out what she's saying if you rewind enough, and once you have, you're besotted—unless, of course, you were Paternoster's friend already.
To sex up that special someone while sleeping over at Ryan Sambol's house is to run the risk that the Strange Boys frontman's got an ear to the adjoining wall, translating the experience into a drrrty blooze treatise on modern togetherness. Or something.
Sadly, Ross's I'm-so-flush talk and Weezy's token croak fail to answer the puzzler the chorus poses: If you're a gold-digging diva holding out for the highest bidder, why would you even settle for "twenties, tens, and fives"?
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