Photography by RedPolaroid!
You & I both know I’m not a big Animal Collective fan. Look, I don’t even know an Avey Tare from a Panda Bear from whoever did that album that plays backwards — hey! what’s this switch do? Ooo.. cool! Let’s keep it like that! — hell just today I learned it’s Avey and not Avery, though I’m dubious.
Does that make me a better or worse music cricket? Not sure, but from here on out you can take all this with all that because, you see, I’m listening to Down There. No… not my penis, the album by the Animal Singular, Avey Tare.
I don’t get it.
Like… at all.
At it’s worse, it sounds like someone fucking around on my old casio. Or like a “experimental new age” album (see the end of “Glass Bottom Boat”). At it’s best, a sweet & simple melody pops out here and there (see “Laughing Hieroglyphic” starting around the one minute plus mark).
Now, for what it’s worth (not much, apparently), this comes from a guy raised on oddballs & prog, from the goofiest, most experimental Ween & Violent Femmes songs to the most long-winded time-shifting medieval & spaceshipped enchanced Yes & King Crimson songs. But this…
You do the math and Animal Collective, et al, & I should be BFFs, texting each other, LOL, OMG, L8R. But I’m not. We barely speak to each other, except when forced to because we are both sitting at the “spouses” table at a shitty wedding.
I don’t know why. I’m missing the gene.
I put on Down There, like I put on all their releases and sub-releases, hopeful that this time I’ll get it, this time, I’ll be like you & yours, be able to look at all the pleebians and shake my head at their inability to get it, but here, still, I stand — sit actually — as the cliche goes, on the side-lines.
Another on the list, right next to Sufjan and Radiohead. Yeah… What’s wrong with me?