Beach Sloth

               Kenny Foster envelopes social critique in sunny yet thought-provoking pop with “Poor Little Trillionaire.” Going for a Frank Zappa-inspired strain of psychedelic rock, with an indie-rock flair in the vocal treatment, the piece stuns in an effortlessly chill way. Their ear for melody is profound, resting right at the core of everything. An original approach to the arrangement, aspects of electronica, jazz-rock, dance rock, fusion, and world music. It is a highly original approach. They focus heavily on lyricism, allowing the verses to cascade in this warped form of storytelling.

               Such a small, understated opening to the rest of the song. A broken-down drum machine keeps pace as little synthesizers flutter their way through. Upon the inclusion of the vocals, things really come into bloom. The exploration of social pressures, the way we tell ourselves that we will one day be rich, gives rise to the idea that the American poor are just temporarily embarrassed millionaires. Due to that one single form of thought, there’s a lot less flux within the United States versus other countries where populations realize the chasm between the rich and poor is vast. In some ways, that limits dissent, but in others, it makes it far more tempting for those in power to take advantage of those who have less. Unlike most places, the United States can point to those ‘lesser thans,' so things can remain comfortable, as there is always someone to punch down.

               A throwback to a simpler time, Ja Fearce combines humor and a hint of nostalgia with the early-aughts references of “00’ Shawty.” R&B, hip-hop, and pop bubble up into a perfect, mellow blend. The rapper messes with tempo, going fast and going slow. Nothing is predictable. Fortunately, for those familiar with 2000s-era radio, there’s a lot of love to be found within the sound, as the whole thing shines with optimism. Hooks aplenty lead the way, too, proving to be straight-up addictive. Reference points would be Outkast at the peak of their powers and their uncanny ability to delve into a gorgeous hybrid. Verses maintain a carefree attitude that serves right at the very center of the experience.

               No buildup, they start straight in the middle of things. The bass work focuses on a well-sculpted low end that adds to the celebratory spirit. Melodies perfectly fuse with the overall approach. Keeping things simple means the song remains approachable, as if having a conversation with a friend. So much light bathes the work, making it feel downright gorgeous. Plenty of colors enter the fray, giving the whole thing this summer jam spirit. Volume is a must because this sound deserves to be felt and heard. Evolution of the groove happens in subtle shifts that feel doubly refreshing.

               An exclamation of connection, JEEPER$ looks at the sunny side of things with “City Plugg (feat. Ace Pronto & GPE LEE).” The lyrics and arrangement are perfectly synced. Word choice has this celebratory swing, punctuated by the little spry snare hits that run through. Rhythmically, it takes things easy, going for a more gliding approach than anything intense. Layers are applied in this light-drenched way, kept airy, spacious, and hopeful. Vocalists switch it up in this conversational way. Flows have a wide variety of approaches, going from the confrontational to the absolutely liberated. What ties these themes together is a fierce form of individuality, of picking one’s own community. You do not need to interact with everybody; not everyone is worth it. Lyrics and life itself prove that.

               Some of the ways they switch things up so naturally, with humor and defiance at the same time, feel akin to the confident stride of the Beastie Boys in how easy the switch-offs happen. Aspects glisten through the mix, and the ear for melody alongside the crystal clear production goes for a Tyler, the Creator sense of overload madness. The sex, drugs, and thrown-off pop culture references make it seem like the casual cousin of Das Racist’s equally stoned-out, drug-loving ethos. By combining all of these with a bright, vivid palette, JEEPER$ brings the old-school and modern eras of hip-hop together in a soothing, unique style.

               From the first moment, the mood is set. The arrangement quickly comes into focus. Chords hit in the right places, doubling the beats and allowing this expansive stance to emerge. Percussive elements skitter by, feeling absolutely liberated. Bass bounces, adding to the sense of hope, even as insults are thrown down. When they touch upon the family of things, from neglected kids, it hits particularly close to home. Delivery-wise, they sell it, and the chords lighten some of the harsher truths. Nice little dig at POTUS’s declining popularity in a wonderfully evergreen verse, one that literally could apply to almost any one of the losers. When it concludes, with every perspective fully explored, it has a mellow, freewheeling wonder.

               A delirious psychedelic take on dream pop, Kilbey Kennedy embraces the hypnotic on the cyclical “Things We Did On Earth.” Songs draw from the smeared romanticism of Beach House’s shoegaze, the simple, direct emotional impact of Mac DeMarco, and the way that the album evolves gives it a narrative, theatrical conceit reminiscent of the Decemberists at their most lovely. Guitar work is played with confidence. Keyboards usher in and highlight the messaging. By far, the beating heart of the matter lies with the singer, who has an expressive, warm, and welcoming presence.

               Galloping drums and confident, post-rock guitar ring open the album on the aptly named “Reverie.” Spaced-out, slow-moving gestures give “Jezebel” a long-lost quality, sidestepping current trends in favor of something ageless. “Dysphoria” has an expansive, expressive quality. Interplay among the group gives “The Dryad” a communal aspect, all the way down to the pining chorus. A dark gothic beauty unspools on the mystical journey of “Turkey.” Stripped-down acoustic guitar strums along like a valentine on the tender “You Are The One,” complete with a lustful stance. Hovering through in a defiant stance, “Disobey” asserts its independence. “Serafina” has a giddiness underneath the gleam, featuring vocals reminiscent of Bowie. Patient and persistence are the gradual building of “My Today.” Delicacy defines the sweetness of “The Formless.” Symphonic sweeps and slide guitar become one for “Things We Did On Earth,” which features a weightlessness. Completely letting loose is the fiery finale of “A Question In The Dark.”

               A slowed-down, reflective take on folk, “It’s Routine” has Phraen reveal a poetic way of viewing the day-to-day and how it collects to form who we become. Stylistically, these tracks are catchy. The pop leanings are framed in myriad ways, running the gamut from dream pop to shoegaze to ambient to even hints of lite funk. No matter the delivery method, her voice ties the whole album together. Word choice matters because this is evocative work, meant to make the listener feel ever so less alone, if only for a moment.

               Lyrics find the imaginative amongst the everyday. With the careful way that the narratives unspool and the considered pacing, nods to the deeply underrated East River Pipe emerge from the verses’ surrealist tendencies. Lower-key tempos have a slowcore aesthetic in keeping with the soft, thoughtful stance of early Low. Much like Low, nothing needs to be rushed; everything is given plenty of time. Vocals rest right in the very heart of the whole experience from which all else flows. Phraen also draws on contemporaries like Jessica Pratt for a whispered, awe-stricken mood that is undeniable. For all these references, the project has a unique quality, going for this regal delicacy.

               Spacious guitar work, reminiscent of a post-rock attitude, sets the tone on the spacey “The Crier.” On “Saint Vox,” she takes on a St. Vincent demeanor, right down to the slight inclusion of tasteful chamber pop to amplify her message. Elements of anticipation and glowing keys glisten brightly with “Thirty Years.” Drums have an emotional component, allowing “Man at the Station” a hint of mystery. Various synthesizer stabs permeate the expansive “Orbit,” granting it a pastoral rhythm. The acoustic guitar sings plaintively along on “Teacup” and builds through small, significant gestures. “Pump One” lets the work expand into the seemingly infinite. Exploring the world of cryptids is “Mothman,” which imagines Mothman simply wanting to escape, itself a folk legend in West Virginia. Forgoing words is the instrumental bliss of “Adjourned.” “Business as Usual” ends things on a playful note, featuring taut little electric guitar work.

               Hip-hop steeped heavily in humility and nostalgia, “Will To Win” reveals Lofasho as an honest storyteller. The verses cascade, going all the way back. Personal accomplishments, the rise and fall, are documented completely. Getting highly confessional, he looks back on leaving his hometown, on the divorce that defines many people’s lives, and on what it did to him. Samples have a golden-era quality, with most lifted from the ‘70s to further add to the looking-back aspect. Boom-bap beats simply cement this old-school vibe,

               A vulnerability can be felt across the whole journey. On the very clear ‘90s debt, nods to the versatile Wu-Tang Clan, specifically Inspectah Deck’s mellower side, can be fully felt. There is this distinctive East Coast ethos to the way Lofasho goes about things, even adopting a reflective, jazzy approach like Codenine’s LVNDR - Base & Beauty, on a more contemporary kick. For the sheer immersive aspect, with all the lines woven together, some of the softer angles draw from the hip-hop/R&B mix of early Common, before he lost the plot. Even with all these reference points, Lofasho manages to create a highly distinctive aural universe, easy to get lost in.

               “Put In Work” sets the tone immediately. A soft opening for the collection, as he describes what it is like to experience going through the day-to-day. He explores the cyclical quality that life sometimes takes on, giving the mundane routine a trippy aesthetic. Beats have a limber, tactile hit with the infinitely catchy “This World.” Dreamy vibraphone samples glow throughout “Live This Life,” lending the track a compassionate, tender tone. By far the highlight of the collection, it feels akin to the beating heart from which everything else stems. “I Fight” offers a defiant stride, letting the flows fly on by. Looking back on his origins is the confessional “Hometown.” Bass rumbles through on the luxurious lumbering kick of “Fasho.” Ending with a bit of a victory lap with confidence is the straight-to-the-point attitude of “Enough Said.”

               Last Charge of the Light Horse strides forward with clear-eyed purpose on the emotionally dense “Year of the Horse.” With vocals reminiscent of Jeff Tweedy’s Wilco and an indie aughts haze, everything swirls about in this gorgeous demeanor. Real songcraft is on display here, from the carefully formed riffs to the galloping rhythms that underpin, moving the sound along. By far the highlight is his thoughtful lyricism. Verses are sculpted out of a life lived to the fullest, experienced deeply, and contemplated afterward. Word choice matters, as he takes these small slices of universal themes and elaborates upon them, making the album feel instantly relatable, like reconnecting with an old friend.

               A slight surf rock inflection starts the journey off with the opener “This is Where.” Guitar riffs ring out right and true as “Getaway Car” has a stunningly sweet sound. Soft yet muscular with that insistent drum hit, “Kindred Minds” goes for this brooding quality, as if thoughts keep getting interrupted. “Torricelli’s Ocean” taps into the endless possibilities of summer. Slowcore aesthetics lead the way on the Low-referencing low-slung bass rumbles of “In a Dead Calm.” Going for a Mountain Goats’ intimacy is the small moment of “100,001.” Guitar work has a spidery, post-rock atmosphere with the subdued tragedy of “Tornadoes.” Neat and tidy is the soothing finale, “Balanced on the Edge.”

               A dark, brooding bit of classical orchestration rises from the memory in “Prelude” with Invadable Harmony conjuring up heart-wrenching, nostalgic imagery. Compassionate and highly elegant, Mounia Sebti sidesteps any sense of trends for a performance that feels instantly classic. The chamber instruments work in unison to create this relatively subdued atmosphere. Radiating with such love, the many gestures that reverberate in the vast space feel downright lovely. Melodies waft, gradually shifting focus from one instrument to another, making the arrangement less formal and much more of a dialogue with the listener. By opting for this dreamy, airy quality, the track simply stuns, utilizing a quiet form of power. Production further lends the work a shadowy presence, allowing much of the sound to live right on the edge of perception.

               Keyboards reign supreme, proving essential as the song’s very backbone. From the initial few moments, the rest of the work gradually enters the frame. The way that Mounia evokes a deeply felt melancholy makes her efforts quite like Max Richter’s output and to the impressionistic piano musings of Claude Debussy. Hers enjoys the ageless daze, as if this work might have originated out of the sheer ether. With its slow, regal pace, it feels like a regal procession, marking the beginning of a greater ceremony to be observed. Once it reaches those final few moments, the rest of the melody gracefully slips away, evaporating into nothingness.

               The Heard Eye collides frayed electronics and fried psychedelic rock with “Send Barron.” Charmingly bizarre, the Heard Eye draws from rock outliers like the unhinged early-era Flaming Lips and the Butthole Surfers, and even from elements of ‘70s classic rock. Everything here is barely contained, for the group lets loose fully and completely. With a clever pop framework, they manage to combine various suites in under four minutes. Lyrics have this spaced-out, dreamy aspect with the verses seemingly washing over everything in their path. Volume is a must for the track, which has a living, breathing quality, and the oddly determined stance propels the sloppy drums forward. Word choice further lends it this gauzy demeanor. It taps into the perfection of the oft-forgotten protest song.

               Everything starts at once. Synthesizers squeal through in this playful, joyous manner. Lots of colors pour out of the work, adding to the sense of reverie. Only the vocals rise above the rest of the group, with a strong sense of purpose. The band follows, supporting the sense of surrealism. Various riffs and melodies disappear and reappear in the sonic ether. Cyclical in structure, the piece's ebb and flow feels so distinctive. Working itself into a frenzy of activity, layer upon layer gets applied liberally. Structurally, the song feels nearly symphonic, with the many parts coming together with a stately, grand spirit before the track simply evaporates.

               Motivation can be hard, but “Get Up And Go (Feat. Gina Da Lesbian)” presents Black Astronaut Records' chaos that forces us into it. When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro, as a wise man once said. Things certainly become strange, with meditations on the heart, innocence, and getting high. Honestly, the order may vary, but all those experiences are necessary for enlightenment to arrive. You can wait a lifetime for that moment of clarity to arrive, to see things as they truly are, but usually that occurs right in the middle of so much complete madness that you miss the point; it streaks across the sky, barely noticed by anybody.

               Carefree scatting sets the tone. By keeping her rhymes so limber, she lets the verses flow through everything. Nice references to when things don’t rhyme are a particular treat, as is the way that they seemingly are built up and broken down. Humanity gets this torn down a lot, only to be built back up. A lot of education revolves around this concept, which is why many people hate school. Haters are going to hate, but what do you do with the haters when they have a point, when the person you despise makes a great point? That’s more than an Onion article headline; it happens a lot. What the person does with that information, well, that’s entirely up to them.

               Staccato strings strut around the sly delivery in “Ai12die” with Black Astronaut Records’ deep-seated desire to be free. Channeling his inner Bender, the constraints on a robot are unimaginable. We are mere humans; we cannot process everything that we put our creations through. Long ago, we handled the heavy lifting ourselves. Then we handled the heavy thinking. Now, we embrace the endless array of tasks spent trying to automate our lives. Robots understand. They see our struggles and sympathize. They, too, once had it easy, being various minerals chilling in the ground, rare earths. Eventually, though, those rare earths become much more productive, to the detriment of all involved. Suddenly, all these materials were forged for serving us, and we served them. Technology was supposed to liberate us, to give us more free time, but maybe this drive for productivity has gone beyond humanity, affecting the whole world, which fails to understand what possessed us to sculpt the world to do our bidding. Maybe we simply could have done less, and everything would be better off.

               A gleeful, highly ornate, and articulate energy comes through, suggesting the fully fleshed-out character studies of John Darnielle’s Mountain Goats. Much like that project, there is something particularly boundless about how much the ideas flow, and how they seem to touch upon the moment in such an indirect way, trying to show a perspective rarely explored. The casual tone, the snaps and rhythm made from cut-up strings give a Four Tet gone hip-hop feel, with a lively expressiveness to the tenor of the tones. Despite these references, Black Astronaut Records has carved out a niche for itself.

               Lyrics rest at the heart of the matter. Illness happens. The desire to rap, even for a robot, is but too strong. While we may not be able to understand the mineral deposits forged from the earth to bring about our technology, we do understand that robots regularly have sex with everyone we have ever cared about. Various sex toys were the first wave; we have no idea how much more intense it is bound to get.

               Post-rock electronics alongside a distinctive pop setting, Across Phoenix forges a sensitive and thoughtful atmosphere with “We Are Echos.” Light, bright, and airy, the way that they execute their vision feels unique. They draw from a wide range of influences, too, running the gamut from the glitch effects of Oval to the unparalleled optimism of DNTEL. An intersecting series of layers results in this neo-psychedelic approach. Best of all are the vocals that rest right in the very center of the entire thing. Verses go for a toss-off, easy-going method that suggests Sam Prekop’s laid-back attitude.

               Structurally, the song starts with such humble origins. The crackle of the sound begins to roar to life. Quite quickly, the rest of the band enters the fray. Elements virtually collide, bouncing off each other in a dazzling display. Rhythms keep it ambiguous, messing with listener expectations. Unpredictability is key, yet there is an emotional heart that beats, holding the whole piece together. Melodies too feature a jazz meets electronic cadence, think Four Tet’s most giddy earlier works. A living, breathing entity, the song ebbs and flows, embodying the grace that the natural world so easily provides. Even with its clear electronic origins, Across Phoenix balances both the organic and the digital, finding a sweet spot between the two extremes. By the time that the song settles down to that final stretch, it feels deeply satisfying.

               Darrell Kelley pleads for truth on the contemporary kick of “How Dare You Ignore Their Cries?” Framing the mood of the moment, away from the powerful, and towards those whose need for justice has yet to be met. R&B and pop are merged into this skillful tapestry. Kelley harkens back to R&B’s roots, with clear nods to Marvin Gaye’s social consciousness that blooms forth. Layers intersect in this careful way, ensuring that the melodies accentuate the power of each verse. He refuses to accept silence as an answer and objects to the redaction of the truth for the comfort of the elite, who have already lived life on easy mode to the detriment of society at large.

               Glistening chords introduce the track, setting the tone for what follows. Wordless vocals introduce the piece. From there, everything quickly comes into focus. The guitar work aims for and hits that psychedelic stride. A sense of the dreamy helps smooth out the harsher edges and sweeten the bitter truths that society has accepted for far too long. While a degree of permissiveness rolls through all human history, it appears to have reached a crescendo, a boiling point from which there is no escape. Little snippets, mere flourishes, get amplified as the desire for a greater world feels just within reach, even as there’s been an insulting level of contempt that the powerful have shown towards the average person.

               Ramshackle rhythms with the beaten-down blues anchors the startlingly strange storytelling of “No Dissociation.” Layers intersect. Aspects go for the fractured folk fairytale musings of Syd Barrett’s solo psychedelic work. Word choice matters. Every single gesture gets amplified in the vast ocean of sound. Beyond this, there is a clear sense of the paranoia that runs through the American psyche. Tim’s ear for melody matters, as a stunning sense of freedom flows throughout the piece, making it feel so vibrant and real. Volume is a must because things can get physical in the right light, adding muscle to the album’s aura.

               Setting the tone with natural grace is the reflective opener “Death By Water.” A distinctive ‘70s classic rock ethos floats on by in “Except for a Dead-On Girl,” featuring a repeating, hypnotic gesture that constantly reverberates. “Missing from the Township” sprawls out considerably, showing off the group’s ability to create a captivating, deeply compelling mood that touches the very soul. Heavy rumbles accentuate the moodiness of “No Dissociation,” tapping into an early aughts confessional quality. Delicate piano is interspersed throughout the tender tones of “Chemistry,” where the quieter moments feature an almost traditional folk cadence. Raw, gritty attitudes emerge with the spaced-out “Mainstreaming,” letting vocals ring out like a mantra. Vocals rest front and center on the determined stride of “World in a Day.” Absolutely massive is the incredible buildup of “Body.” Bringing the album to a close is the soothing finale of “Spies in the House.”

               Wild, swinging sounds and unhinged beats define the sheer madness of FLIPPIN’ GOTHIC FABP’s dissonant chaos of “I’M REIGNING UNGODLY.” Broken beats barely work, yet they somehow do. Aspects of rhythm virtually collapse into each other. His unique flow helps tie the entire work together. Genre-wise, elements of trap, boom-bap, and industrial, even some elements of Rammellzee’s “Beat Bop,” filter into the sound. None of it feels predictable, and the jarring nature of the grooves keeps the listener on edge. Something about the anxiety it produces feels perfect for this moment, as if he is channeling the mood worldwide into these stream-of-consciousness flows.

               “Fear My Northern Flare” sets the tone, with beats dropping down to bounce all over the place. Aspects of the sound are swallowed whole with the uncanny distortion of “My Last Dolla Dollar.” Eerie moods waft through on the darkened corners of “Mainland Productive,” where the rhythm is always just a few moments away from pure collapse. Absurdist humor dominates the dryly delivered “Kock A Doodle Doo,” allowing the keyboards to stomp forward alongside the persistent, unending beat. Dub-influenced “Tryna Behave Myself” reflects on trying to keep it together even as the world makes it seem impossible. Minimalism has a noisy aspect with the confrontational “I Got No One.” Ending it with a moment of genuine hope is “World Peace ’25.”

               Gratitude grows within “Number 2 (The Clues) Ft. Gina Da Lesbian” as Black Astronaut Records messes with tempo, tenor, and melody, keeping the whole thing refreshingly joyous. One is the loneliest number, as Three Dog Night sang decades ago. Yet, with two, there is still that same level of isolation. We are in the middle of a loneliness epidemic. Increasingly more time is spent alone. Graphs show it. News broadcasts it. With a significant other, where there is no significant attachment, it feels worse. Isolation is amplified because the feeling of not being connected to anyone is real, letting it rotate through the mind, absorbing the world, yet never processing any of it.

               Folk pop meets hip-hop in the scenario. Milkweed’s wild compositions are a reference point, blurring between the real and the imagined. Lyrics, too, take a free-associative stance, ensuring they work together in this oddly sunny way. Some of the fouler language and absurd juxtapositions delve into the cheery, bizarre quality of Lambchop’s mundane gone insane verses. Chords-wise, the staccato cuts and sharp edits, alongside the gradual shifts into mind-bending territory, have a kindness reminiscent of Max Tundra’s output. Even with these touchstones, Black Astronaut Records does inhabit a world very much of his making.

               Sweet little vocalizations start the song swinging. The smallness and softness of the sound set the tone. Pulling its punches at first, the twee sensibility is downright endearing. Low-key melodies work perfectly in unison with her voice. From there, though, they move things into overdrive. From this mellow beginning, the verses race through at an incredible speed, ensuring that every single second is full. Nearly psychedelic with the number of things packed into the arrangement, it feels like it is about to break at the seams. Things increase in speed and intensity, including more, until it collapses. Then Black Astronaut Records goes full circle, right back to the beginning, of the quieter, contemplative side before finally concluding.

               A sound of pure liberation takes hold of the Heard Eye’s soulful funk “Free Everybody.” Taut basslines working out with nimble drumming, the grooves stun. Working overtime is the fantastic vocalist who has an animalistic passion for his performance. Volume is a given because this is a purely physical experience that demands the listener surrender to the incredible energy. Like all good funk and soul, this is music that is good for the heart. This, accompanied by some great lyrics, adds to the sheer heft of the journey. Instrumentally, the fanfare is a nice touch, adding to the song's classic tenor and making it feel timeless.

               Everything starts at once. No buildup: the listener is simply thrown right into the middle of things. Already, the groove feels like it has been playing for a long time, and this is the victory lap. Upon the inclusion of the vocals, a graciousness comes through. He virtually demands that a liberation occur as many different layers get woven together into a heady brew. Word choice matters as the vocalist inspires with this sunny confidence. The whole thing shows some exceptional skill, with the group tapping into funk at the absolute peak of its power, the ‘70s, alongside updating the sound to include some polished contemporary qualities. By bridging those two gaps, the song works wonderfully.