NOW That’s What I Call Vuvuzela Music!

Hollywood, CA-The unanimous titan of creating semi-outdated popular music compilations has made another splash in a thriving mixed CD industry which appears as timeless and lucrative as gold or silver. NOW That’s What I Call Music! will pioneer in a new, more sophisticated era of music with an album compiled solely of vuvuzela covers. The 72 minute horn epic will be conducted and curated by none other than famed jazz vuvuzela composer Bill Biscane.

“The fact that any morsel of pop music created in the last five years is microwaved bath water affords me certain creative liberties while doing vuvuzela covers, actually the dull drone of a plastic horn is more challenging than anything you’d hear on the radio,” said Biscane meticulously rearranging his collection of colored plastic horns.

For only four payments of $19.99 pop music fans can hear someone slobber on a novelty toy for almost a full hour as they repeatedly attempt and fail to wipe their own ass.

Critics are calling NOW That’s What I Call Vuvuzela Music! ”The complete realization of the deterioration of popular music,” “Something to listen to while taking a painful, nutrient deprived dump in your piece of shit apartment,”  and “An album that a grazing herd of inbred goats may enjoy, which makes its popularity that much more alarming.” So buy the album today!

Hype new DJ to wear glowing fidget spinner on face

Las Angeles, CA-A steaming hot new DJ known only as “FidgetSpivva” has erupted all over the festival circuit after being recognized as a completely passable Skrillex cover band. Unlike other DJs FidgetSpivva’s relevancy is as timeless as the children’s toy he named himself after.

“I had my team rig up a big ass fidget spinner covered in strobe lights and blow torches that is mounted on my face, when I’m about to hit one of my signature covers on a Skrillex drop, I spin the SHIT out that thing,” said a muffled FidgetSpivva through the enormous prop, which due to a horrific blow torch accident at last year’s Lollapalooza has permanently fused to his otherwise maimed face. The accident rendered him blind and deaf, while also leaving only a penny sized hole from which he both consumes food from and vapes from.

The spelling of the name has been a point of contention amongst some fans, who although confused by the presence of v’s instead of n’s, admit that, like everything else in life, the product is better because of it.

“I’m not like other DJs. I’m not some pussy who takes his helmet off, it’s about taking helmet based EDM to the next level. I’m talking to a shaman about getting my hands replaced too. Fidget spinners are forever,” continued FidgetSpivva who looks at the surgery as a calculated risk given his inability to play any instruments or even DJ on a very rudimentary level.

FidgetSpivva can be seen next, this month, at the bi-yearly Furry convention held at Wiseacre’s Wizarding Equipment at the Wizarding World of Harry Potter in Universal Studios Orlando.

Sufjan Stevens restores faith in humanity at Pitchfork

In the midst of humanity’s disgraced swan song into oblivion, discovering a vein of unconditional beauty pulsing through the viscous membrane of intolerance, fear and anxiety that has bound our planet is all anyone needs to realize there may be hope yet. The vein beat through the audience with the earnestness and disruption of a child’s chalk drawing on the otherwise ordinary slab of pavement. Pumping vessels filled with imagination, completely free of judgement or pretention, ready to be digested as something unique to every single audience member.

Witnessing what appeared to be an apparition from 2006 (complete with flat brimmed hat and cut-off shirt) release 5,000 years’ worth of emotions into the air on Saturday night was everything. Heartbreak, happiness, mortality, love, loneliness, death, auto-tune, nothing. At points, the emotions poured out with such abandonment that they were completely incomprehensible. And in those moments of bewilderment, I found myself staring at nothing in particular, swaddled in a state of infantile curiosity. Laughing uncontrollably at a suit of balloons.

Moments later almost crying at the prospect of impermanence and death. That something so delicate and perfect could only sustain itself for so long. Grateful for family and friends and more specifically that incredible moment in time, but understanding the heartbreak that no such moment will ever exist in those exact circumstances again. I’m uncertain if I’d want it anyways. The impasse of wanting nothing to change while also having faith that it is in some ways, somehow necessary.

I found it difficult to write this, because both everything and nothing describe the show perfectly. Ten billion words or zero words in a language that will never be invented. A rare moment in time in which pure happiness and pure sadness poured out simultaneously, in unrelenting beauty. I can only say that I am happy that I was part of the deconstructed mass left in the wake of a masterpiece and that humanity is, in some capacity, still capable of good.

Thank you Sufjan.



Lollapalooza officially endorses shitting yourself

Have you ever wanted to vacate your insides in unison with several thousand other drunken gremlins while watching a lifeless Sam Smith cry on stage? Well, watch out for falling logs because that dream is now a reality! The bathroom lines have always been bad at Lollapalooza, but this year the festival has an ingenious idea that should immediately remedy the situation. Lollapalooza staffers will be armed with box cutters and will be crudely fashioning “dump holes” in any willing festival goer’s fashionable high waisted jean shorts. “We’re eliminating every Porta Potty in an effort to cut down on bathroom lines,” Said Perry Farrell taking a prolonged, majestic drag from a Virginia Slim. “Since the human filth descending on Grant Park were already pissing and shitting themselves, the only logical solution was to make that easier…thus decreasing lines and increasing happiness.”Continued Farrell.

The crudely fashioned holes will allow your brown eye to have just the same dismal sightlines as your normal eyes, as you stand several miles out with the hopes of hearing a note or chord. Desperately hoping your leg doesn’t get humped by the mollied out tool fresh off the train from Wilmette.  Farrell went on to hail the hole as extremely versatile and utilitarian, noting that you can now get as fucked up as humanely possible and not have to worry about something as trivial as controlling your bowels and bladder.

With the time for waiting in line at bathrooms all but eliminated, now you can focus more of your energy and time trying to find all of the friends that you lost, figuring out a way to recharge the battery to your cell phone, standing in line for overpriced domestic beers, and wind sprinting back and forth between stages that are miles apart…ALL WHILE POOPING AND PEEING YOURSELF! The possibilities are endless. Embrace your inner insect and let your ring piece fly!

If you’re going to Lollapalooza, you’re going to get pooped on…might as well make it your own.



The swirling grey, elephant skin sky drowning the city in a wintry abyss seemed less concentrated. Veins of sunshine made it appear a finished puzzle, the freshly compressed corners were satisfying. What was driving this? Was there actual warmth to follow? I stared wholly into the reflection on my phone confused albeit delighted. A gust of paralyzing wind sent me retreating further into the depths of my coat. Recoiling and finding brief sanctuary in the intricate threads of the fabric. I clicked the top button to check the time and saw something that wasn’t there before.

A photograph of pure nonchalance. Strangely enough on an airplane which is usually synonymous with despair. I could see the wrinkles and booze stains even through the glossy phone screen. I could smell the cigarettes. It appeared a simpler time, or perhaps just one that gave less of a shit. Free from the confines of relentless broadcasting and sensory overload.  I remembered that it was the album art of an instrumental album I had downloaded the previous night, Jetlag.

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Jetlag is a versatile instrumental from everywhere and nowhere. It features artists from around the globe though there’s no real way to tell where anyone is from, that is without the guidance of the track list. A testament to how much musical expression differs from verbal or even visual, completely void of any preconceptions. A vacuum of beautiful sound. It’s a strange phenomenon in which each producer unveils their sonic personality while also surrendering themselves to whatever it is Jetlag is.I’m still uncertain what it is. As far as I can tell it is an uncommonly malleable organism that can inexplicably be played both zoning out at work and stoking charcoals at a barbecue with friends you’ve known since third grade. It is the gust of warm air on a cold day and the gust of cold air on a warm bus. Both contrasting sensations, both completely necessary.
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Also check out the Seasick counterpart:

Kidz Bop 27

Kidz Bop volume 27 is the perfect album for any and all occasions. So you’re craving that feeling of being trapped inside a giant fart filled PVC maze, with thousands of wailing kids, at DZ Discovery Zone? Kidz Bop 27. What about when you’re longing for that feeling of a kid doing a cannonball on your head? Shoving you deeper into the booger ridden poop stained balls in the ball pit at the McDonalds in Hammond, Indiana. Kidz Bop 27.  Who can forget about that feeling of getting pink eye from said balls? Yet another fond feeling that can be resurrected by the voices of screaming kids. It’s as though someone recorded the toy aisle at Walmart for 50 minutes on black Friday.

What could be better than hearing chicken shit top 40 songs as sung by the rejects from the after school choir at St. Joseph’s grade school? I’m surprised every song on here doesn’t have a recorder solo. I think my head would explode if I heard Katy Perry covering “Hot Crossed Buns” covered by Kidz Bop. Just could not be more confused as to who is buying this. Even a simple minded kid should be able to discern that whatever professional is singing the song is clearly better than their snot nosed peer. On the plus side if you order now the album comes with a pile of xannys and a half gallon of Everclear for any parent unfortunate enough to endure this.



Owl John

Artist: Owl John
Venue: Bottom Lounge
Rating: 10/10

Scott Hutchison’s Owl John show was realizing your mortality drinking the last of a flat PBR staring at the suffocated embers of an abandoned cigarette, alone as the lights come on. It was the first beer with your dad. The first real beer. It was a Wednesday during the summer between Sophomore and Junior year in college, with a job you didn’t give a shit about and friends you couldn’t care more about.

Songs served as though they were being read from 1000 year old, leather bound poetry books that had lost at sea for several decades. Genuine. Warm. Weathered. His voice sat pleasantly in the humid air that the fans ineffectively stirred. Several hilarious stories made it seem as though he had been friends with the crowd for years and bottom lounge was a favorite old haunt. Admittedly slightly drunk, his buzz seemed to be shared throughout the crowd, a fall glow as seamless as a freshly carved pumpkin. There was no set list, there didn’t need to be, the current of the crowd pushed and Scott curated.

Owl John was everyone. Favorite song of the night:

Pitchfork 2014

Pusha T
5 minutes, 10 minutes, 20 minutes, 30 minutes. After the crowd had cycled through the traditional “We want Push” and “USA” chants, excitement slowly grew into annoyance which grew more quickly into rage. Almost as though his refusal to come out to the USA chant made him somehow unpatriotic. First the crowd began to plea “We Want Based God”, signifying the hipster crowd would rather have cult rap favorite Lil B performing. Then came the boo birds. Reigning down with the unforgettable scorn of 1,000 ironic mustaches and revived 90’s teenage angst. They didn’t seem to hold the unobstructed hatred of the boos experienced by Rex Grossman at Soldier Field after his third pick-six of the game, but they were damn close.

Finally, after 30 minutes Pusha T emerged on stage, inexplicably drenched from head to to. It was strange. Looked like perhaps a Vaseline jar malfunction backstage. Apparently his DJ had gone missing minutes before the show. Who else could POSSIBLY step in, locate the play button on iTunes and successfully click it? Who could possibly smash the shit out of the fake gun noise and fake explosion buttons? Born skills, not learned.

An absolute sprint of a set, most songs lasted no longer than 30 seconds, a measely half hour in total. He encouraged the crowd to sing along on most songs, creating an unparalleled awkwardness, as most of the vodka-drunk high school d-bags obliged, dropping n-bombs to their heart’s desire. The ignorance was vast. The set ended just as quickly as it started and I left feeling unsatisfied. For some reason all of the Goose Island beer tasted like barley wine.

Danny Brown
Danny Brown converted the entire city of Chicago on Saturday, July 19th. Baptized both young and old in the waters of senselessness, recklessness and unhindered lunacy. I saw what appeared to be a 45 year old zoo keeper and a chick that looked exactly like Stephanie Tanner dancing identically in Brown’s web of depravity. The language of madness is universal.

The amount of chaos on stage was imposing, it was Bartertown from Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome. There was an immense fog blowing consistently around the stage, undetermined whether it was artificial smoke or weed smoke from the frenzied crowd. When rapping, Brown stood perched one leg on an amp covered in smoke, making varying decrees of degeneracy. Eagerly consumed by the ravenous crowd.

When not rapping, him and his crew danced violently, with no apparent rhythm. It was glorious. He pounded the crowd into a total frenzy. The stage banter was hilarious, desolate and genuine all at the same time. A moment of gratitude followed by a piercing snicker and an earnest question of who had a Molly he could eat. A headline caliber act.

Almost got screwed on this one as a lanky muppet with an uncanny resemblance to James and the Giant Peach cut in and stood in front of me. I’ve never witnessed such an idiotic and infuriating melon, not to mention he was a sloppy teen-drunk, slugging and spilling peach schnapps everywhere like a complete buffoon. Perplexingly enough he was also barefooted, somehow contributing to my fury. His dancing seemed like something you would do at a Coldplay concert, lots of loose swaying and gazing stupidly into the sky. At one point I caught him hugging himself, unfortunately my sock full of quarters was confiscated at the door.

When the James-and-the-Giant-Peach heckling grew loud enough and he finally fucked off, the set became immensely more enjoyable. St. Vincent owned Pitchfork. A perfectly acted, immaculately choreographed spectacle. It was precise and flawless. Surgical. A beautifully curated set with a face liquefying ending. After a mind-bending shred, she let the guitar slide from her hands, and slumped over on the stage. A portrait of someone who had just left everything they had out there. This vision only disrupted by one more spastic outburst where she awakened and smashed her head repeatedly into the drum set, it was stunning.

Neutral Milk Hotel
There couldn’t have been a more peculiar headliner. After St. Vincent I wandered my way over to the bizarre happenings at the Green Stage where Neutral Milk Hotel had quietly sulked onto the stage. A familiar 90’s wail reigned out over an aggressively aloof crowd. I sat for a while and watched the majority of the crowd lay down, perhaps attempting to catch a quick nap before resuming their night’s activities. I overheard a conversation about high cholesterol and another debating whether Eugene Levy was a good actor or not. No one seemed to be drinking at this point. No one seemed to be doing much of anything.

A pale blue light covered what appeared to be 5 very timid, very sullen men. The video screens were turned off. There was no light show, there was no stage presence, it was as though everyone there was staring at a photograph. A tiny completely plain diorama, constructed by a 3rd grader without much imagination. Nothing about the performance indicated it was a headliner. It would have been very enjoyable, eating a scone and drinking out of an over-sized ceramic coffee mug on a brisk morning in October. Not here, not now, not these circumstances. Maybe it was a strategic move by Pitchfork to completely neutralize the crowd still buzzing from Danny Brown. It was at potent as a tranquilizer gun, bringing on instant sobriety and a will to quietly and peacefully exit the premises. People were heading for the exits faster than when they play Closing Time at a bar.


Pour Some More

Artist: Gucci Mane
Album: Brick Factory
Song: Pour Some More
Rating: 4.6/5.0

You can almost hear the codeine slithering elatedly over gold capped teeth. A flock of one dollar bills sail effortlessly through the air, giving momentary relief from the already exceeding dimness of the room. There’s an audible shifting of ice cubes as a lobster tail is pulled from a vast seafood tower. Pour Some More captures that moment exactly.

The best places to listen to this are; riding on an ATV in a pack of other dudes also riding ATVs (en route to a strip club), a private jet with suicide doors and hovering above a city that you’ve claimed as your empire in a jetpack. In no particular order.  To fully appreciate the song you should also be wearing a pair of Jordan’s, preferably 4s, a pair of excessively large Gucci aviators that only serve to obstruct vision, and a pair of designer track pants.

Aquarian God Form

Artist: Mackned
Album: Aquarian God Form
Rating: 4.6/5.0

Aquarian God Form
was produced and recorded in a Hyperbolic Time Chamber.  An oasis of exhaustive solitude, where days are years and inner turmoil flourishes. The type of seclusion that causes complete banishment from reality. Providing time to cherish thoughts on existence and creation. Consider the past and future in no such order. There’s a certain reverence for this type of isolation, a longing for it. Reality is overrated.

The backwards progression from industrious torment into a subdued passivity is a fascinating evolution. Like a creature elaborating into its perfect form. The first half of the album is a consuming and destructive, the sounds mined directly from Saturn’s Red Eye. It fervently depletes every ounce of available energy. The second half of the album is subtle and reflective. Spiritual. Otherworldly. Containing the buoyant, ethereal state of the night sky as it’s examined on a, seemingly endless journey home.  It recognizes the absent energy, and settles into an enjoyable, relished state of exhaustion. The lyrics and sounds forming a spiraling, elevating, dew filled cloud. A graceful vessel to sail off into the abyss. A restful sanctuary in another reality.

This is the second air tight effort from Seattle rapper Mackned and a slew of producers and artists, who may or may not be  universally adorned artists on another planet, as they should be on earth.

Best Songs: