There's nothing like drugged, lumbering-leviathan noise metal to warm the loins and stoke the imagination. No clue whether TNA veteran Sting is looking for new ring-entrance music, but the idea of cracked-mirror dirges heralding his accusatory assault has its own cosmic appeal, its own ineffable logic.
That being desired can incite desire—desire to translate into copulative passion, or, yes, into onanistic carnality—is no secret, but I enjoyed listening to Friedberger try the idea on and tiptoe around the fact that the titular earthquake wasn't really seismic in nature; think of this as her "Mesmerizing," only coyer.
Listening to baseball games via radio forces listeners to turn to imagination to fill in the blanks, heightening the experience of following the action via a single sense. So the question "Baseball" raises is this: Is its subject actual or a lurid delusion?
You know, regardless of who's being addressed and in what context, there's something inherently wrong and disconcerting about hearing a woman sing, "I want to be inside you."
The UV Race
Australia's latest answer to the Ramones can barely play their way out of a paper bag, which is to say that they're a puerile trainwreck, which is to say that they've never going to be anywhere near as spontaneous and forthright as they sound on debut Homo. "Girl" suggests a sloppier Art Brut; don't let that queer the deal for you.