The Songs We Can't Escape

courtesy of the artists

"Twilight at Carbon Lake"

Brandon Cox is bound and determined to reduce me to quivering Jell-O this year, isn't he? First, that killer Atlas Sound LP; now, this slow-burning soul-stirrer from the forthcoming Microcastle, so darling and deliberate, asway like a dingee on a coral sea moving from eerie calm to Pacific storm fury. I could just cry.

"Black Tide"

"We siphon the dark from the night," somebody intones in a serpentine stage-whisper, as nautical radar pings and sinister brass redoubles the disquieting sense of impending doom. Feels like the prelude to a psychic snuff film or something.

"Patterns on a Summer Dress"

Quinn spent a bit of time as half of California soft-psych duo Skygreen Leopards, but the music he's releasing under his birth name suggests 1970s Lou Reed if Lou'd been more interested in blotter acid and Bob Dylan than in smack. I'm reminded of Wooden Wand's better solo outings—Harem of the Sundrum, especially—you know, that humid, sun-fried folkie delirium. This sort of thing makes me wanna get drunk, and I mean that in a positive way.


Not sure whether this was intentional, but the pensively distorted synth hook here immediately brings to mind 50 Cent's "I Get Money"—so kudos to whoever produced this track. Otherwise: loved Pusha calling coke and crack "Whitney and Bobby"; snickered along with Malice when he sneered "I chef classics, here's my Cuban Linx." Also, Ab-Liva and Sandman seem surprisingly relaxed and self-assured spitting over a beat that's theirs as opposed to jacked for mixtapes, as though they're realizing that since they've earned their stripes, coming heart-attack hard every time outta the gate isn't necessary. Something tells me that Clipse Presents: Re-Up Gang will hit hard.

"Titus Andronicus"

This Jersey troupe roll deep enough to field a pick-up football team, and by the sound of this self-titled rager they're pissed as frick, they're gonna break stuff, they're shredding daisies to the chorus now and they're gonna staple gang-chant doo-doo-doo-doos all over the thrashy over-instrumentalized pop-punk taffeta whether you like it not, beeyotch.

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