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#Sub Pop
nirvana-collector · 4 months
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INCESTICIDE
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nofatclips · 21 days
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French Poet by Protomartyr from the EP Old Spool and Gurges 1
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ripramzi · 10 months
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Where It All Started- June 15th, 1989
34 years ago today
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vorpalfae · 8 months
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༺🕯️𝒦𝒟𝒞🕯️༻
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Hole - Dicknail/Burnblack (1991)
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traderrock · 1 year
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loverockawaitsyou · 4 months
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Matt Cameron and Eva from The Blacktones singing Nirvana's SLIVER!
Also, who else do you spot???
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faiiry-vomit · 1 month
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🧷Kurdt🧷
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darkredlightyears · 6 months
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Beach House - 7 details
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possible-streetwear · 6 months
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dustedmagazine · 1 month
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Omni — Souvenir (Sub Pop)
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Photo by Gem Hale
Omni, now four albums in, arches an eyebrow at post-punk. It makes its songs out of an erector set of sharp, shiny guitar parts but leaves the bolts loose, poised to collapse into a clanging pile. Yet lush melodies drape over this rickety architecture, florid sung lines, viscous patters of bass, unexpectedly lyrical swoons of guitar. Brittle cleverness dips unpredictably into unreconstructed romanticism, sarcasm gives way to boy-misses-girl sentiment. The trio—as always Philip Frobos on vox and bass, Frankie Broyles on guitar and Chris Yonker on antic drums—hasn’t exactly softened their edges, just laid a bit of velvet on them.
As a result, there’s something very pop about “Plastic Pyramid,” the song that eavesdrops on Frobos’ super-sexy call and response with Automatic’s Izzy Glaudini (“Are you hydrated baby?” “What are you, a tall drink of water?” etc.). Sure the band tackles the ever-punk topic of consumerism but does so from a soft bed of longing. “Unbox paradise,” stutters Frobos, as his bass pumps up the dance vibe, and he doesn’t sound entirely averse to the process.
“Exacto,” likewise, jitters and freeze frames like a robot at the disco, a steady pulse of bass and rigid, rectilinear structures of drums. But hold on a second, it also pauses for lyrical intervals. “I love you like the first night, for the rest of our lives,” croons Frobos, close to falsetto and very much on the make. Then he undercuts the suavity with an acerbic observation, “Mr. Big Shot always forgets to introduce his wife.”
The word play is often clever in a not-trying-too-hard fashion; you can almost hear the private school drawl in cuts like “F1”which crams multiple photography metaphors into lines about excising people from lives and memories (and snapshots). “You were cropped out of the photo from that long weekend, passed out by the pool, overexposed again,” Frobos rattles off, then comes in for the kicker, “How should I frame this?” It’s good, arch fun, but a little smarmy.
Listening to Souvenir, I can’t help but think of Stuck, the Chicago post-punk-into-no-wave outfits that sometimes refers to itself as “evil Omni.” That’s a funny way to say that it cranks the slashing guitars, the yelps of outrage, the banging drums about three notches tighter than the Atlanta trio. Comparing the two, you might begin to wonder if there’s anything solid behind Omni’s detached cleverness, it’s super clean, super manicured attack. Maybe regular Omni could benefit from a touch of evil. 
Jennifer Kelly
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myvinylplaylist · 7 months
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Nirvana: Bleach (1990)
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2021 Vinyl Reissue
Original release did not include tracks Big Cheese and Downer, most future releases did (starting with the 1990 CD version). Vinyl releases that included these two bonus tracks moved Negative Creep from the beginning of side B to the end of side A.
Sub Pop Records
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mywifeleftme · 2 months
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298: Wolf Parade // Apologies to the Queen Mary
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Apologies to the Queen Mary Wolf Parade 2005, Sub Pop
Apologies to the Queen Mary is on the short list of ‘00s indie records that I’d consider masterpieces. The funny thing is that my list, as someone who was there (or there-adjacent), is pretty well fixed in time, whereas the consensus among Zoomer critics continues to morph in ways I’d never have figured. (Or maybe it’s not funny, really—just always how time and memory work.) In 2008, I would’ve bet my left pinkie that TV on the Radio (and especially Return to Cookie Mountain) would be the defining band of the era. Meanwhile, in 2024 the Killers are still riding the same five songs to a second greatest hits record and fifty times TVotR’s monthly residuals; the National have tween fans; and I hold a mug weird. Time clowns us all and Wolf Parade are a dad band now, owners of a few anthems from the era before genuinely weird indie bands could near the summits of the pop chart, economically compelled to continue touring small theatres together despite both Boeckner and Krug having been more invested in other, even less profitable projects for some time now.
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Wolf Parade is one of those bands with two lead singers who sound indistinguishable before you know the group well, and instantly identifiable thereafter (like John and Paul of the Beatles, or Felix and Will of Chapo Trap House). They’re both yowlers who let their voices crack pubescently as shorthand for the frayed emotional spectrum they traffic in, given to barking and hooting to help drive their bric-a-brac compositions forward. Boeckner is a lanky post-punk looking fuckboy in roughly the Richard Hell mould, given to posing sweatily in torn undershirts and starting projects with a succession of raven-haired keyboard players he’s also dating. He loves motorik dance rock and Wire, but also has a substantial helping of Bruce Springsteen in his songwriting. Krug is a stocky, normal-looking guy who doesn’t really meet your eyes and self-deprecatingly called his solo project Moonface. He writes lyrics that sound like philosophy and love letters translated from an alien language, and prefers his music to both thwack and quaver.
Their similarities give Wolf Parade coherence, but much of their dynamism comes from how the two singers pass the controls back and forth. Backed by electronics tinkerer Hadji Bakara and Arlen Thompson, a drummer (crucially) capable of serving as a rhythm section unto himself, Krug and Boeckner find the perfect balance between Krug’s experimental art collective predilections and Boeckner’s slyly sexual rock ‘n’ roll heart. Krug leads with the empty warehouse strut of “You Are a Runner and I Am My Father’s Son”; Boeckner parries with the hooky acoustic rocker “Modern World”; Krug closes with the brittle seven-minute dirge “Dinner Bells”; Boeckner responds with the pinkly-hued Suicide-Springsteen collab “This Heart’s on Fire.”
Both Boeckner and Krug have made wilder, stranger music elsewhere, and there are plenty of other brilliant Wolf Parade songs to be found across their subsequent records. But Apologies remains the greatest blend of their particular talents they ever managed, a perfect example of two guys pushing each other to do their best work. With luck, a future generation will reconsider Wolf Parade and its many, many satellites (Sunset Rubdown, Operators, Handsome Furs, Frog Eyes, Swan Lake, Divine Fits…) as one of the most interesting micro-scenes the whole post-alternative rock era produced. And if not, I’ll still be here spinning the record a few times a year, believing in it all all over.
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298/365
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punkrockmixtapes · 2 months
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Sunny Day Real Estate - Seven [OFFICIAL VIDEO]
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vorpalfae · 8 months
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𝐍𝐈𝐑𝐕𝐀𝐍𝐀
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mariska · 1 year
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outtakes from the photoshoot for Weyes Blood's album And in the Darkness, Hearts Aglow (the middle photo is included as a full-size poster in the vinyl record release) | photography by Neil Krug, 2022
(via Natalie's official instagram page weyesblood)
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