This week the albums reviewed by our specialists, original in their choice and in their own analysis, are:
Domestic interior, without fanfare. Low lights, loose cats and artificial intelligence. Agenda 2030.
“Hey Siri, make me a record of I have it.
-As of the end of the last century, between 1998 and 2000.
-¿Le meto tralla?
-The fair, without reaching ‘Painful‘.
-And who do I sing?
-To all three, although I like the voice of the drums more.
-Should I put something similar to what they have done lately?
-Okay, for a change, but not much.
-I’m going… Here’s a Yo La Tengo record.
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There are people who do not have enough patience to wait for engineering to develop the necessary tools to prolong the work of their favorite authors and who, along the way, begin to plot a future of forgeries in which, for example, Kraftwerk He not only exhibits his anthology of past glories in exhibition halls and fairs, but also composes and records new music.
-Oye, POWERMANmake me a Kraftwert record.
-From what period?
-Pick them up where they left off.
-I’m going… Here you go’Tour of Italy‘. She’s going to love you.
The album that KRAFTman reproduces is an undisguised plagiarism of the ‘Tour de France‘ from 2003, whose argument moves to the Italian race. Pedaling. No escapades. ‘Ritmo Della Pioggia’, ‘Passo Dello Stelvio’, ‘La Gazzetta Dello Sport’, ‘King Of The Mountains’ or ‘La Maglia Rosa’ are the flying goals of a stage of pure exhibition and tribute, like the ones that close, on the way from the last goal, the three great cycling races. Get on the Kraftwerk podium. No one will talk about the team that has taken him this far and can take him even further, for the moment human, known as KRAFTman in the peloton, but scheduled by the synthetic and the artificial for 2030, a high final, special category.
By David Moran
Yo La Tengo – ‘This Stupid World’
The world will end, the zombie mushrooms from ‘The Lasto Of Us’ will have eaten every last survivor and there will continue to be Ira Kaplan, Georgia Hubley and James McNew, the wonder trio from Hoboken, squeezing the distortion, twisting the ‘feedback’ and billing his fiftieth masterpiece. Exaggerated? Not at all. Few things are more secure and reliable than a hard drive. I have her, a sure value since indie is indie and a band with such an exemplary discography that it would be strange if they made a bad album.
Fine and safe, also the reviews of the discs of I have it they have become an exercise in repetition and sampled enthusiasm; a safe space for lazy reviewers who, spoiler alert, can use the wild card of “comforting oases of marred rock” without making it too noticeable that the same phrase has been repeated year after year and record after record since, say, the days of ‘Painful’. ‘. Praise, in effect, weakens, but not them, but us.
“Prepare to die / Prepare while there’s still time / It’s simple to do / And then it happens to you”, they croon on ‘Until It Happens’, a ‘Velvetian’ hum with which they grope the balmy pre-apocalyptic song and set the tone for a album with which they, happy Buddhas of noise rock, seem to surrender to the fatality of fate.
It is, in a certain way, the great novelty of a record in which those from New Jersey re-read themselves from the front and back and sharpen their aim even more (more than in ‘There’s A Riot Going On’, to give a close example). in time) with rock miniatures like ‘Apology Letter’ and trademark electricity rashes. A great record. Another one. Honors in ‘yolatengism’. Ay, the routine of glory