Reminiscent simultaneously of everything since 1967 and nothing at all, this album underlines the band’s archival warrant in red ink.
Narrator Reginald Morse’s online screeds track the tensions underlining the end of the American century and mimic the twilight howls of the white American male.
From the irreverent spirit of Gainesville chill-punk to the anxious energy of the rust belt, Do You Feel Any Better? outlines the contours of punk rock better than any recent release.
Straight Outta Compton is a film obsessed with its own history, as though viewers are listening to a deep conversation between Dr. Dre, Ice Cube, and their own reflections in the bathroom mirror about where they’ve been and how they got there. But what is their argument?
The merest whisper of Atticus Finch being anything other than what he was in the eyes of his six-year-old child in the depression is enough to send adults in the twenty-first century stomping straight for the exits.
Dope captures the fracturing of the twentieth-century’s colonial order better than any film in recent memory. No, really.
This, then, is the wage of postmodern capital: a wholly predictable haunted house, a ham-fisted and cynical rumination on mortality mediated by basic cable spiritualism, and an open door for the next commodity in the series to enter the pop culture milieu.
The dynamic relationship between performers, audience, instruments, and space makes each acoustic performance different from the last. In contrast with the cold predictability of digital pop, then, Monterey is contingent. It is honest.