There's something precious and pure about the zines I made in late adolescence. But it's worth nothing that I never feel much of a need to revisit them now—let alone to foist them upon complete strangers.
Marble Valley for tadpoles, basically. How many fingers am I holding up?
I mean, did you ever think you'd actually feel nostalgic for Drake's Thank Me Later? Nah, me neither.
Swanson, believe it or not, has maintained a consistent release schedule post-Yellow Swans; the problem has been one of availability. Somehow this—the screams of a million overloaded guitars, a phoenix whirling and thrashing in its intergalactic, fluorescent death throes—found its way to iTunes, so it's possible for anyone to mind-surf Swanson's horizon-wide molten-slurry churn any way you wanna: bent or straight, in a box, with a fox.
Unknown Mortal Orchestra
As audio cults go, Ruban Nielson's seems reasonably benign. Nonetheless, keep your wits about you: Decline the innocuous offers of lollipops and sauteed mushrooms, perform pre-scheduled reality checks, and arrange for a buddy to ring you every hour to make certain that you're still able to feel your hands.