Really, these suddenly somber North Carolinians could've titled this anything else—"Pagan Hygiene," "Sleeper Cells," "Tangerine Lifesavers"—and its rippling, hologram-like flocks of synth-tone would still pack an epic, IMAX-level punch, but because they went with "National Parks," you taste the cool gush of rivers, hear the roars of black bears, feel treetops brush against your fingertips as you swoop low over federally protected forests.
"Ha Ha Havok"
Brian Chippendale is no longer attempting to thrash his way out of a moldy sub-basement with a ripped ski mask and a pair of cracked drumsticks; Brian Chippendale is tunneling to the center of the Earth with a ripped ski mask and a pair of cracked drumsticks.
Heavy echo, tape hiss, looped stage whispers, wavelength bop: This is Harper in "Mr. Subliminal" mode, and given where he's been in the cosmos it's hard to believe we're hearing him broadcast live from a terrestrial grave site.
Yuill's stated apprehensions are emotional in nature, but when his will-o-wisp beats twist, buckle, and abandon the rails, they crystallize a desperation that's downright universal, regardless of what kind of dire straits you're in, or think you're in.
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