Krispy Kreme doughnuts, Good Humor bars, and an onstage cooler of frosty Budweiser longnecks: the breakfast of champions. Kooky, but more than competent in terms of recreating that formerly elusive shredding-with-the-bros-in-a-Northridge-Ohio-basement-in-1993-while-toasted vibe.
The gag is that "No Release"—think Animal Collective/Robert AA Lowe lapidary organ loop ecstasy—is, inadvertently, all release, a cascade of bioluminescent chords ushering in an album (why do brilliant house producers always feel the need to start singing on their own shit?) that isn't anywhere near as divine.
If someone tried to write a ballet around "Captured"—ghostly drones, moans, brushes on drums, flummoxed, beaded-curtain guitars, pouty horns—the phrase "you are autumn leaves, released and bereft" would have to appear in the stage directions.
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