Man, those rabid guitars! So peeved, foaming at the frets, even as "I Might" itself rides this hard-jangle xylophone groove over the edge of sanity, the jump-cut to nowhere. Are Wilco finally entering their Vitalogy phase? We can only hope.
A doom-metal harridan wanders into a studio, thinking he's going to be cutting some heavy slab of uranium today—but dig this, it's the wrong studio on the wrong day, occupied by a corps of keytar-armed nu-New Wave neophytes. Initially, there's some genre-associated tension, but détente is achieved when both parties bond over a shared taste for reality-accelerating pharmaceuticals.
Man, you should be thanking Clams Casino; Clams Casino just saved you the cost of a plane ticket to Brazil, if not quite the cost of a plate of actual clams casino.
Drake's still Drake. Dude continues to sound bored with the very concepts of rap, high-end tail, and nouveau riche extravagance. As such, it's the production that keeps me coming back to "Dreams," this sort of deluded, smog-noir swirl of menace and portent that's Imperial Bedrooms sinister in a way its host will never quite be.
I fear I'm several years past the age where hangover mash-note pop leaves much of an impression, where there's much of a point to lovesick ghostly echoes of songs as opposed to songs proper. But I'm not hating; somebody out there needs these girls to pretend to rock, oh so softly.