Neon Indian
Deadbeat Summer
They tried it way back in the ’60s, but it wasn’t until the Nothings that the digital sound “blipt” (off of Tim & Eric Awesome Show, Great Job!) finally came into its own. Shove it hard, guitar. While emo and aggro battled neck and neck in the last decade for control of hipsters and douchebags alike, fun young cruzeros like Mexican-born Alan Palomo shot up through the middle, perfecting carefree strategies of sculpting sound with their eyes closed, always remembering the sadness-denying Japanese harmonies their NES consoles sang to them during the “lonely hours.” Those of you old enough to remember batshit madness like Fantastica that used to play on TV at six in the morning back in the ’70s will be familiar with these sun-melted tones, as will fans of everything from Tangerine Dream to the rather-more-than-slightly mental business of Atlas Sound. But what I like about Neon Indian is how “classic” it comes off as — Palomo isn’t riding on nothing but shoplifted electronic sounds; it’s more like, “What the fuck else would a person do when there is a situation?”
Lo-fi and more chill than three Nermals, you still better wash your hands after these beats so they don’t infect the whole kingdom. It’s almost too lazy for me, but Death is somewhere just around the corner so I’m in a hurry sometimes. Especially check out “Mind, Drips,” which is what those creepy toy robots in Blade Runner should be listening to in the next Director’s Cut, when the thing goes 3D or whatever.
***1/2

Dirty Projectors
Temecula Sunrise
Hooray, those preciously layer-y poops in Dirty Projectors have released an EP! Seriously, is it okay to not suck these guys’ sugarcanes? Dave Longstreth croons like he keeps “accidentally” sitting on ice dildos while the music takes disturbingly awesome Moorish beats and randomly smashes their edges with Tori Amos cassettes. It is the sound of a baby being shaken in public, and there are too many of them onstage. This is not experimental melodic music so much as attention-seeking clatter. And while I mean no disrespect to their art-school fans, do you guys actually pretend to not notice there is just one good moment on the record — an orchestral swoop that promises climax and instead has a retarded gibbon taking a dump on your Proust: The Movie sheets? Compelling job playing with the balance knob! Right-click, delete. Guh.
*

Old School
Ti-Roro, Ti-Marcel, Renée Mirault and Friends
Voodoo Drums in Hi-Fi (1958)
As unforgivable as the packaging is, meant to scare your cocktail date’s dress off, plus the fact not all of the players are credited (I gleaned the names of just three off the back cover), this is a hypnotizing album of rhythm and vocals.
The ethnographers do their best to plug this music, recorded on location in Haiti more than 50 years ago, into a safe context — but damn if it doesn’t just jive with ear-drilling flute, Latin-imported merengue, scratches and all. Hearing such digitally unaffected percussion is like standing at the edge of a waterfall. It’s what David Attenborough masturbates to. And when Mirault leads her anonymous chorus over those mad flutes I feel myself shifting into some kind of growling, hairy were-goblin. Look out, midnight refrigerator!
*****