Why had I not heard of this Zach Hill (Death Grips, Hella) side project before? The I.L.Y.s hit a lot of my targets — noisy, harshly pop, and completely willing to blur the line between the analog and the digital. The video for tonight’s feature track is also something to behold, though I’d avoid it if you have a thing about bugs. Lots of bugs.
Deep-fried riffs, some well-placed cowbell, and guitars up front in the spotlight make for a heaping slab of that delicious Southern Boogie. There’s not a whole lot of new going on here, but it sure is ready to party.
Tonight started out with an hour of the sickest music around, which is to say songs about illness, medication, and other health-related issues. The following two hours were the usual incomprehensible mixture of genres and bad attitudes.
Rock and roll is absent from the charts, and you’d hardly know there is a serious revival going on, this slab of shimmering paisley from the Fogerty kids being a prime example. Get your riffs, hooks, choruses, and more right here.
There was no official name for this giant hole, this cavern that truly made you realize the proper utilization of the word “cavernous”. Those who knew of its existence referred to it as the “Sarlacc Pit”, while the geologists debated what to call this previously unseen feature in the farthest reaches of British Columbia. The ophthalmologist could not help but recount these facts as they descended into its depths; they were the chatty sort and had barely endured a few hours of self-reflection in the noisy Chinook that had brought the expedition here. The conductor whistled a short melody and listened for the glorious reverberation. The nearest person who could recognize its Peruvian punk origins was 2,524 miles away.
A modern amalgam of fuzz, psychedelia, baroque pop, and over-the-top production, filled with hooks baited with earworms.
It’s a fun party with Johnson, with his deep deep voice, laconic tone, and a boogie-down attitude from the Black Keys’ Patrick Carney
Despite coming from the hollers of Portland, Oregon, Hillstomp still manage to churn out the kind of thrumming crackle only a guitar-and-washboard duo can provide.
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