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Hollywood, CA-The unanimous titan of creating semi-outdated popular music compilations has made another splash in a thriving mixed CD industry which appears as timeless and lucrative as gold or silver.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!

Pitbull’s head is 2X hotter than surface of sun

Cultures taken from singer/songwriter Pitbull’s scalp have confirmed that the top of his head is roughly 2X hotter than the surface of the sun.  Experts initially speculated an equivalent temperature but weren’t that surprised when the reading came back at a staggering 54 million degrees Fahrenheit during an encore performance of “Give Me Everything” in Miami. The blinding reflection being generated by his sopping wet head was the first clue. “There’s a lot of contributing factors here,” said independently funded scientist Patrick Gates, who went on to describe a plethora of possible causes including but not limited to:

  • Perpetually wearing a tuxedo no matter the weather or occasion
  • Soaking head in petroleum bath before performances
  • Singing exclusively about non-existent sexual conquests
  • Incredibly jerky dance motions, often times bordering on seizing, with copious amounts of deep pelvic thrusts
  • Self-proclaiming yourself Mr. Worldwide

All of these should be considered prime suspects in the case of the boiling hot scalp. “A drop of forehead sweat once flew off his protruding brow and blew out the entire sound system, the explosion was unlike anything I’ve ever seen.” said a despondent backup dancer, who chose to remain anonymous. “We’re dealing with an extremely volatile and even hostile surface; it should be approached with extreme caution.” confirmed Gates.

Any type of cooling would disrupt the already unstable glaze. At this point if he isn’t featured on at least 20 songs a year, we could be looking at a total nuclear meltdown.  All the world can do is hope Pitbull continues to take over every aspect of our lives. It’s the only option until scientists are able to either defuse or utilize the immense heat being generated by an incredibly frisky bald man.


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.



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:




DJ Tiësto produces drunk driving anthem of the year

Very few songs are considered champions for drunk driving, crunk wheeling, butt-faced cruising, hopping behind the wheel after exceeding the mid-way point on a 30-rack of Icehouse. Good ole Joe 30-rack. Staunch supporters are a rarity. Ardent advocates come few and far. Rightfully so, it’s perhaps the scummiest dirt-bag move in the existence of partying.  Dropping a 40 on your big toe while hitting on a girl that already wants nothing to do with you, experiencing a nip slip while dancing to “Save a Horse Ride a Cowboy” at a western themed bar in a strip mall, and hurling that can of barbeque Pringles you pounded into a urinal at John Barleycorn all far surpass drunk driving in terms of social acceptability. Though not according Tiësto’s epic drunk driving anthem “Red Lights” , which holds a reverence, and adoration for the past time. An age old love affair. An ode to seeing double.

The song apparently draws inspiration from those glorious nights of tip-toeing out of party, in which everyone has told you not to drive. Before anyone else realizes it,you’re planted firmly behind the wheel of what is presumably a white Dodge Charger with a supper aggressive racing stripe and a spoiler that would have Vin Diesel pissing himself. Busting absolute ass, like a drunk driving demon god, with the headlights off, through as many stoplights as possible. If it’s green you’re stopping and waiting for it to turn red then peeling out. All in an attempt to crush as many XL Steak Tacos as humanely possible, no matter the cost. Sipping Miller Fortunes, furiously chain smoking cigarettes, and crushing disco naps all the while. “Blacked out, everything’s faded. On your love, I’m already wasted. So close, that I can taste it now, now” wails the song, prompting this next beauty of a line “Nobody else needs to know, where we might go, we could just run them red lights, and we could just run them red lights”, Nothing compares to a good discreet blackout, followed by a game of chicken with a brick mailbox.

“When the beat drops, imagine yourself letting go of the wheel, closing your eyes, throwing your hands to the sky, forgetting about the existence of the brake pedal. Just going where the car wants. Or driving with the window rolled down, the cold autumn breeze in your face, projectile vomiting at oncoming traffic. Or imagine tears streaming down your face lighting the wrong end of a cigarette”, said Tiësto longingly as he pondered the existence of his new anthem.

In all seriousness, drunk driving is absolutely asinine and completely inexcusable, even while listening to this song.

Pitbull Wins Creepiest Guy of the Year in a Landslide (already…)

Pitbull has been working tirelessly to join the ranks of transcendent tools like Guy Fieri and Kanye on the Mount Rushmore of blowhards. His tremendous effort has not gone unnoticed, by doing things like nicknaming himself Mr. Worldwide and being a walking advertisement for Jos. A. Bank he’s quickly imposed his miserable stench on anyone unfortunate enough to turn on the radio in the last year. Forcing his stink on us, like the person resurrecting curried catfish in the office microwave. Pitbull’s loathsome douchebaggery is elevated by his unwavering verbal creepiness. His eerily shiny/malleable head also compounds how disturbing he is. One hand stroke from a video vixen in the Timber video and the thing was lumpier/greasier than the new cheeseburger pizza at Papa Johns. Below are lyrics and analysis that support his Creep of the Year nomination and award for anyone that may have doubts.

Give Me Everything
1.) “Give me everything tonight, for all we know there might not be tomorrow”
2.) “And I might drink a little more than I should, tonight, and I might take you home with me if I could, tonight”
3.) “Tonight I’m going to make you my queen, and make love to you endless”

Pitbull just butt funneled a handle of well silver rum, and he’s out leveraging doomsday fear to land the hottest, most fearful strange he can find. (1) After stumbling out of the bathroom in a Men’s Warehouse suit, drenched in Drakkar Noir, armed with a sketchy condom he got from the bathroom attendant, Pitbull is officially ready for action. Nothing gets the ladies going like breathing hot rum fumes in their face whilst babbling about a meteor headed for earth, right before jamming a tongue in their ear. (2) Instilling terror is crucial, the apocalypse is a confirmed aphrodisiac. If that doesn’t do it, then certainly the prospect being humped by Pitbull (still wearing his white tuxedo) for one eternity will be enough to bring home a slam piece from the club. (3)

1.) “I’m slicker than an oil spill, she say she won’t but I bet she will…timber”
2.) “One more shot, another round, end of the night it’s going down”
3.) “Swing your partner round and round, end of the night it’s going down”

If fear mongering about the potential end of the world doesn’t work (though it almost always does), then it’s time to pull out a backup plan that’s guaranteed to work. The process is pretty simple according to Pitbull. The first and most important step is drinking fortified wine. A lot of it, enough so that you puke in a potted plant upon arriving at the club.  The room should be spinning when you close your eyes. You should also be smoking the wrong end of a cigarette. (2) Do these and your golden. If you haven’t landed any yet start weaving an elaborate web of drunken lies. She’ll look annoyed or even angered, but all that means is that she’s totally into you. Also make sure your bald head is greasy enough for the person to see their reflection in. (1) When all else fails, pop onto the dance floor barely able to stand up. Grab the closest chick and go into a complete tailspin. Most of your weight should be balanced on this person. Keep spinning until the dizziness causes enough confusion for a potential hookup. (3)

The line in his new song needs no explanation “I just wanna skeet-skeet-skeet, ride out and go, I came, I saw, I conquered, off to the next, let’s go.” Can someone please tell me who actually listens to the man pictured below?



Artist: Jimmy B
Album: L.O.R.D.S
Song: Screwface ft. Mr. Muthafuckin eXquire
Rating: 4.7/5.0

I didn’t think summer still existed. It may still not. Screwface is a sliver of hope that suggests otherwise. A slight nudge on the thermometer. It’s probably the spitting, hyperactive synth baptized in a sprawling  baseline. The only appropriate dance is no dance at all.  It might also be the unwavering optimism in the lyric delivery, I despise the word swagger…but this song is brimming with it. It’s insane that two people with such immensely different styles can exist on the same track. Something about it makes me believe there is grass under the snow.

The verses are thoughtful, boastful and insightful.  A narrative that examines the complexity of success. The fickleness of fans. Success somehow simultaneously causing love and hate. Distance and proximity. The old fans that once cherished the music now despise it for the same reason new fans love it. Something remains consistent however, the growing hate is an accomplishment unlike any other.


Winners Circle

Artist: Winners Circle
Song: Runner Up
Album: Winners Circle
Rating: 4.6/5.0

I’m uncertain that the name of an artist and album has been so fully realized in the actual corresponding content.  Runner Up for instance is an exalted ode, maintaining a delicate balance between reminiscing on conquests past while also expressing unbridled hope for future triumphs. The beat (laden with horns), lyrics and delivery all work together to convey that momentary feeling of unthinking. That combination of invinciblity and unbending confidence you feel while looking back on whatever obstruction that lies crippled in your wake. The rest of the mixtape is damn solid as well.

On a more primal level, I would love to indulge in some slow motion , gratuitous burnouts in the below Murcielago while listening. Or catching joy filled and glistening champagne drops on your tongue like snow flakes at Christmas. It also for some reason makes me wonder what it must feel like to drink and eat with a grill in. 


M. Night Shyamalan

Artist: Young Jeezy & CTE
Album: #ItsThaWorld
Rating: 1.0/5.0

Well…Young Jeezy officially got me with the ole early 2000’s M. Night Shyamalan prank. I have to applaud him for successfully executing this hoax because it’s rather prolonged and tremendously elaborate. Jeezy is currently planted firmly in Step 3, with Steps 4 and 5 quietly looming.

1.)    Release one to two notable and semi-acclaimed pieces to instill a sense of trust in the consumer.

2.)    Over the next few years produce increasingly middling and unexceptional material, just enough to prevent total abandonment. (i.e. Signs and The Village)

3.)    Begin branding your name on every chicken shit wad released and gauge both time and money from said consumer. (i.e. Devil, Avatar the Last Airbender)

4.)     Confirm yourself as an official has-been. If you DO have your weasel fingers in a project it’s well veiled to hide any involvement. (i.e. After Earth still a colossal failure)

5.)      Start doing autographs and selling merch at County Fairs and become host on an off-cable reality competition show.

#ItsThaWorld is a real ear sore.  A maddening endeavor. A tremendous waste of time for absolutely anyone involved. The fury is actually multiplying exponentially with every passing minute writing this review because of increasing casualty of minutes wasted on this album (and because I am staring at the below picture of M Night). It is actually my hope that you’ve stopped reading at this point so as to halt the venomous vacuum created by #ItsThaWorld. Jeezy is virtually non-existent on the album and anything that remains is unsalvageable.



Artist: Horse Head
Album: Really Really Real
Rating: 4.6/5.0

Really Really Real is a soundtrack for existence. The first song Gifts swaddles you in its undying cordiality, much like the rest of the album. I found myself melting into my Chicago transit seat this morning, though it is greatly undetermined if this was the unwanted heat left from the obese former occupant of the seat or the beauty of this mixtape.

The album has a great arc to it, ranging from aforementioned buzzing, sprightly and hypnotizing sounds to the funkier Night Thuggin. Maintain the continuity and flow by listening/downloading from start to finish using the bandcamp link. There are plenty of good pairings for an album like this, I found myself in a pleasant stupor glaring deep into the faint glow of my computer screen, performing the inconsequential tasks associated with most of our existences. However I could also see myself enjoying it quietly reading on a Saturday afternoon, or fishing out an ice cold beer from the fridge and playing Mario during the same day.