Crack Cloud - 'Pain Olympics'

By Phillipe Roberts

Mind-bending polyrhythms. Crushing bass. Assertive vocals, yelping, howling, and roaring for attention above brutal noise. In the eternally escalating 2010s post-punk arms race, Crack Cloud “emerged” in 2017 to near-universal praise for both their total command of the genre’s instrumental tropes, and their uniquely gutting chronicles of escape from a host of addictions: drugs, possessiveness, and the parasitic fever dream of capitalism as a whole. So when, in the midst of a pandemic, their “debut” album was announced with the jaw-dropping title Pain Olympics, their fate as wretched rockers at the top of a brooding heap seemed an inevitability. I was excited. You were excited. We all braced for the onslaught.

What a sweet relief to be dead wrong. Rather than the pain-numbing exercise in frantic riffing that might have been suggested by the excellent singles that preceded the album, Pain Olympics instead finds Crack Cloud exposing its soft underbelly, reframing a call to arms as a declaration of rebirth. Throwing off the chains of expectations, the Vancouver collective runs absolutely wild, taking the Olympic theme quite literally as they deliver operatic anthems, juicy, synthesized funk, and devastating acoustic ballads on one of the year’s most vital records. Burn down your fears and fly into the post-truth future–Crack Cloud wait with open arms.

Nowhere is the gravity of their ambition felt more completely than on Pain Olympics’s opener, the dazzling “Post-Truth (Birth of a Nation)”. Hardly a minute into the song’s rumbling introduction–a blistering, tom-heavy charge into call-and-response screeches of guitar, held together by truly sinister sub-bass–the apocalyptic proceedings take a heavenly turn. Guitars fade into oblivion, replaced by an angelic chorus carrying a theremin-like melody reminiscent of a classic space opera score. When the dust settles after five delirious minutes of sonic experimentation that rattles through skronking horns, sampled laughter, and a smattering of industrial noise, it feels as if the curtain has been pulled back on an entire world, ripe for exploration.

Crack Cloud thrives in this nonlinear, open-world mixtape format. Across the album, similar textural trials leave the rhythmic obsessions of their previous works in the dust of time. Previously unthinkable flourishes like the robotic auto-tune crooning on “The Next Fix,” the dizzying mid-song drum solo on “Ouster Stew,” and the smeared guitar shoegazing of “Angel Dust (Eternal Peace),” coexist perfectly with urgent punk drive. Artful transitions between songs blur the lines of genre even further, softening up the mind for whatever curveball lies in wait. Where a lesser “band” might fizzle in attempting such a grandiose shift in tone, Crack Cloud uses their distinct advantage with a collective’s worth of ideas to harness, as well as their time-honed skill, to tame that sprawl with an exacting ear for melody and an eagerness to design a future unhinged from nostalgia.

This endeavor’s success is due in large part to frontman and drummer Zach Choy allowing a greater diversity of voices to take center stage on Pain Olympics. The aforementioned choruses in “Post-Truth” and “Angel Dust” are the most striking examples, but “The Next Fix” and “Favour Your Fortune” both reap benefits from the use of massed voices: the former finding healing in its soothing mantra-like coda, and the latter spiking tension with explosive rhymes that bounce and stretch within the stereo image, surrounding the listener like a ring of fire. When Choy does take control, he wields the mic with deadly conviction. Playing foil to the dingy strums of acoustic guitar on “Something’s Gotta Give,” his ragged inhalations and the way his voice just barely carries the tune of the song ensure that his anguished plea to “please be so kind” hits like a hammer. And in quintessential art-punk form on “Ouster Stew,” he sneers and barks with the best of them, sounding quite perfectly like the doomed, trenchcoat-wearing rebel leader that the song’s music video makes him out to be.

Do not mourn for the Crack Cloud of yesterday. Beneath all the brave, sweeping orchestrations (and sometimes above it, as in the blazing “Tunnel Vision”) they’re still the same triumphantly resilient punk powerhouse that they’ve always been. Through their commitment to unravel their own predispositions and gnaw constantly at the urge to remain landlocked in despair, they’ve vaulted past any notion of capitalist competition to become only more human, more empathetic, and more graceful than ever before. A humble document of the wisdom of collective resistance, Pain Olympics is an essential listen for weary souls eager to get back into the fight.

MIKE - 'weight of the world'

By Phillipe Roberts

Lockdown has been good to me and my damaged hearing. Miss me with the cranked sound systems, the clumsy stumbling through the crowd, the anxious routine of smoke breaks between sets. Catch me on the couch with a mug of tea, speakers loud enough to carry a little bit of bass across the room. Find me jamming over a hot stove, cooking dinner in headphones as the fireworks start to heat up the street outside. Away from the noise, away from the crowds, my ears are thriving.

Leave it to a livestream to kill the dream. A virtual concert of all things.

MIKE, the dazzling emcee whose rhymes caught my ear in my frantic first year in New York, was set to perform at 9:50pm, but I settled in early. The Twitch stream was goofy at first; glitching in and out consistently, hemmed in by a scrolling text chat of dozens of excited fans. But the lineup, an ensemble cast of producers, DJs, and rappers curated by Satellite Syndicate, hit heavy and refused to let up. Escee, AKAI SOLO, maassai, JWords, KeiyaA, Nappy Nina, Stas THEE Boss–each swerving the conversation in exciting directions, leaving the fans alternatively begging for more and praying that the stream would stay up. I was glued to the screen.

Day turned to night. A single floodlight, held up by one of the organizers, was brought in to keep the cozy backyard at least partially illuminated. By the time MIKE rolled in, right around 11:30, the couch-locked digital crowd had ballooned to well over 150. Heavy on the gratitude, with shout outs to the acts that had hypnotized us all day, he beamed, danced, and slid gracefully through a short set, leaving just enough time before midnight for an adorable group picture with the other acts. And leaving me, sitting on the couch, warm and fuzzy in disbelief, wishing for the first time in a long time that I could be there, in the yard, basking in the absurdity of live music.

Weight of the World might be best heard live–with a slight yet hilarious audio delay–at the tail end of a stunning lineup of Black musicians on a perfect summer night. But MIKE’s latest and absolutely greatest project to date is a towering achievement in intimate storytelling, with the muscle to lift you into his world from wherever you might be. Still haunted by inescapable grief, he rains his sorrows down on this cruel world with a fierce allegiance to the love that has carried him for so long.

MIKE’s pen is near-legendary at this point. After all, it’s not many who can go bar-for-bar with, and influence, Earl Sweatshirt at the same time. But on Weight of the World, MIKE’s production work as dj blackpower shines almost as bright as his lyrical chops. The atmosphere is as slippery as his spiraling moods, and loaded with clever details. The lethargic drag of “alert*” summons up those lurking demons with somber keys and melting bass, before gradually spilling into the torrential downpour of “coat of many colors", where harsh R&B chops and a brief but thrilling moment of total silence collide in a mournful soundscape that threatens to collapse at any moment. “Weight of the Word*” might be his masterpiece, a convoluted but fruitful journey through downbeat horns and pitchy soul, and a cartoonish funk interlude on the way to a deep and hungry final groove. He’s always worked well in tangling miniatures together, but here MIKE becomes a master of the sprawl, commanding it with authority and grace.

Don’t think that last year’s tears of joy was the beginning and end of MIKE’s struggle to process his mother’s death. Like all grieving, MIKE’s comes in stages, and Weight of the World still grapples–constructively, destructively, and exhaustively–with a pain that knows no bounds and the turmoil that has only tightened its grip. This is a document of pain, even at its lightest.

Some of the hardest moments come when MIKE hands off the beats to a friend. KeiyaA sets up a perfect double whammy on “get rich quick scheme” and “trail of tears”, putting MIKE face to face with a legacy of self-neglect (“the only thing I inherited was blockin’ help”) and setting up a heartbreaking send-off for his mother (“Keep swimming my beloved spirit, you know your son is near”). Throughout the record, he’s digging through fragments and memories, deflecting them with self-effacing humor: “Scribble off the sad shit, cause it’s all the same shit,” he sputters on “what’s home ½”. Seconds later, he ages himself up into cold maturity, taking stock of failed escapism: “When I rolled, I was feelin' for something that heal / But I know every bit of it harsh.” MIKE, still only 21 years old, raps like he’s lived a lifetime between records.

Those lost years constantly reflect back to the loss of his mother, unearthing an unease with himself that he remembers as a constant (“Remember cringin' at the mirror, I was not myself,” he reflects gravely on “trail of tears”). Nursing those wounds, he slowly pushes for acceptance and begins to relieve himself of that pain. “Weight of the Word*” finds MIKE achieving stark clarity, seeing that his mother prepared him for her absence: “I know my mama sing that song so I'll never forget,” he rhymes in the album’s catchiest chorus, lonely but warm to know that his memory–his pain and his patience–honors her too.

Watching MIKE shuffle and dance his way through Weight of the World’s harsh and beautiful revelations through the grainy webcam darkness of a livestream, you couldn’t help but latch on to the joy radiating through that backyard, the shared happiness of being as present as possible to witness the release of sorrow. Maybe our damaged ears needed this break, this opportunity to reflect with longing on how urgent and decisive our presence with each other can and should be. Winding back and forth through this divinely miserable miracle of a lockdown album, I’m only grateful to have briefly glimpsed that better world, even from a distance.

Jeremy Ray - "M.I.N.O"

By Gerard Marcus

With so much (needed) attention being placed on some deep rooted issues in our country, it may sometimes be hard for people who don’t face systemic harassment on a regular basis to remember that people who normally face that harassment have been facing it their entire lives. A lot of the issues that are now seeing more or less universal empathy have sadly become normalized in the world of the afflicted. There’s a tension between a lot of the new voices strongly calling for change, and an unwillingness of some from affected communities, who have been given false promises before, to believe that call. Jeremy Ray’s new single/video ‘M.I.N.O’ (murder is not opportunity) explores this tension from the side of the afflicted. 

The video is a simple one, finding Jeremy in an acid-kissed dreamscape proposing questions and relaying observations from the mind of someone who is searching for an optimistic future, but has experienced the dulling pain of crushed hope again and again. ”Are we not on stolen land?” Jeremy asks, pointing to the foundation of pessimism. How can a person looking back at our country's entire history open themselves up to believe this time will be different? “So involved you couldn’t see the violence.” How does that person know this isn’t another passing social media phase driven by people's inability to access a lot of the normal comforts of their daily lives? As soon as those people regain their comforts, will they just lose interest like they have so many times before? “Well I wake up scared for my brothers / Hope they’re not mistaken for another man.” This struggle is everyday. 

How do you comfort that? For those new voices so adamant to take action, how do you convince a person who’s mother, father, grandparents, great grandparents, and on have been harassed and taken advantage of that change is coming to a system that defines the rules of the society they live in? There is no one answer, but a strong way to start is by giving your continued time and attention. When life for you gets easier again, don’t forget that this ease isn’t universally experienced. The struggle for equality has been a frustrating, Sisyphean struggle for a lot of us. It would be nice to finally have enough people stick around to help us make it to the top of the hill.

This is the first solo release from Jermey Ray (formerly Dove Lady) who, rumor has it, will be doing a release on Canada based label Vain Mina Records in the not too distant future!

Space Captain - "Secret Garden" / "Back of My Mind"

By Phillipe Roberts

Bursting the intergalactic bubble of Space Captain’s most outwardly futuristic dispatch yet, bandleader Maralisa Simmons-Cook keeps a loving eye on the past as she boldly steers the beloved Brooklyn outfit through a pair of stunning new singles. “I’m always living for nostalgia / reliving yesterday” she sings on the upbeat second track, “Back of My Mind,” weaving her stacked vocals through hazy fields of reverb, seasick whirls of synth-bass, and–playing a greater role than ever before–meticulously programmed drums. An unwinding of memories in reassurance to a former flame, it pairs beautifully with the disarming and lush introspection of “Secret Garden,” where synthesized flutes, bright beds of organ, and finger-picked guitar jostle for attention on a honey-sweet ballad that welcomes new love into an intimate hideaway within. Their newest release since 2017’s heavenly All Flowers in Time, “Secret Garden”/“Back of My Mind” dials down the dreaminess for a more focused, grounded, and ear-catching Space Captain than ever before.

Releasing a pair of love songs–or any music, for that matter–during a pandemic is a frightening emotional prospect for any artist. But as the weeks wore on, Maralisa began to accept that the songs, reflections on “being emotional, being vulnerable, and finding vulnerability,” might have a place in the “new normal” rising up around them.

“Finding and building sanctuaries was huge for me the last couple of years,” she explains, citing the emotional burnout of the last election and the exhaustion that came after releasing their first full length album in articulating the band’s slow songwriting progress. Dearly departed Williamsburg coffee shop Caprices by Sophie, was one such oasis with its hidden backyard; a space for her to breathe, think, and songwrite that became the inspiration for “Secret Garden.” A San Francisco native who’s nevertheless put down roots so deep that she hasn’t moved from her very first Brooklyn apartment in over 8 years, Maralisa opens this quiet place, bursting with “treasures and lovers inside,” to be explored and shared with a new love.

Accompanied in a special performance by organ virtuoso Jake Sherman and featuring guitar from Gray Hall, backing vocals from Joy Morales, and *very* live drums from Donnie Spackman (Great Time), the song erupts midway into a soaring bridge that Maralisa had considered the chorus until producer/bassist Alex Pyle suggested otherwise far into the writing process; “Sometimes we care about song structure, but usually...we don’t,” she notes with a laugh.

“Secret Garden”’s companion piece, the swirling “Back of My Mind,” emerged slowly, working its way up from the bottom of Maralisa’s list as its vocal melody burrowed into her ear and spurred her nostalgic mind to action. “This is about a person I dated a long time ago who left a really positive impact on me,” she explains, “It’s about honoring that kind of relationship.” Far from a breakup song, the lyrics muse sweetly on how their love has evolved past fumbling romance into something deeper and more treasured, “a rare, rare find” that grounds her; a foundation to move forward from. The warped, spacey production is weighty and energizing. There’s a heaviness to the memories, but between the knock of the drums and Maralisa’s commanding double and triple-tracked vocals echoing wildly, you’ll be weightless by the second chorus.

With the band’s members–a tremendously accomplished group of musicians who frequently tour the world supporting artists ranging from Moses Sumney to Beyoncé–temporarily locked down due to COVID-19, new songs are on the horizon for Space Captain. Writing more than ever before, the band are due for a second, late summer release this year (also on Tru Thoughts Records), and a music video to accompany these fantastic tracks. Keep Space Captain on your radar–your attention is mandatory.

The Lazy Eyes - "Tangerine"

By Charley Ruddell

If you’ve paid any attention to Australian music recently, you know that psych bands are one of the country’s largest exports following iron ore, coal, and sweet shiraz. Between Tame Impala, King Gizzard & the Lizard Wizard, and their respective offshoots—The Murlocs, Pond, and Pipe-Eye to pick a few—Aussie psych rapidly spread and dosed U.S. indie-heads over the last decade with the swift sweep of a panned flanger. Sydney four-piece The Lazy Eyes are the newest group with a buzz from down under, with the release of “Tangerine,” the second single from their forthcoming debut EP. 

What began as teenage camaraderie at a performing arts high school developed into a bounding collective of creative output on borrowed equipment in basement jam sessions. The zippy, acidic “Tangerine” is the first song created from these adolescent fever dreams. Paired with the driven rhythm section comes a trademarked Aussie-psych polyrhythmic melody; lurid Lennon-esque couplets delivered with hushed assurance, the edgy intimacy of DIIV’s Zachary Cole Smith or Pipe-Eye’s Cook Craig bearing influence along the path. 

The unbridled energy that bursts from the pit of “Tangerine” isn’t lost within the bouts of washy guitars in the song’s chorus, or even the clunky deceleration leading up to the song’s climactic, bluesy guitar solo, but is encouraged by the endearing placidity of the vocal delivery. Through its burning three minutes, “Tangerine” is entirely porous and playful in its spirit, with the sleepy eyelids and chugging energy of a teenager who’s been up all night on a tab of great acid.