When Japanese "metal" polymorph Boris is somehow capable of making a better Deerhoof album than Deerhoof can, something is very wrong with the space-time continuum.
All very White Magic, isn't it? There's a madrigal charge to the mélange and swoop of vocal harmonies, sure, but the pianos are what keep me coming back to "Satellite"; insistently plangent yet vaguely mysterious, they suggest Axes-era Electrelane minus the same locomotive forward motion.
Circuit Des Yeux
If your soul was trapped in a fading cell phone at the bottom of a well on a self-destructing spaceship, you'd come across as a bit despondent, too.
Every moment or so on the version of this song I've been sampling—thank you, YouTube!—the rhythm trips over itself like a needle skipping on a turntable, and the song resets itself, forced to rediscover its footing and re-establish a groove. Which is maybe the most honest and original coital R&B commentary I've encountered, ever.
Every outraged mob needs a solid riot anthem to hum while airing grievances through the ageless poetry of physical street violence; this one might as well be yours, crack-crazed Republican National Convention party-crashers.