How NOT to write about music – 46. Grimes

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You know how rare it is they play death metal on the Radio One breakfast show? How can this NOT be my jam? Submit. Submit. You have any idea of the shit I have to wade through just to get to one good slalom? My only regret about my job at BIMM London is that I don’t get to wear latex bodysuits 24-7. That, and the tiredness. Have you any idea how rare it is that shit as heavy as this – no, not Catfish and the fucking Bottlemen, not fucking Vaccines with their vacuous pouts and vacuous lyrics on constant alert for the next cover of Vice – get played in my car? Submit. Submit. Submit. If you all weren’t so caught up on gender you’d be hailing this as the new Nine Inch Nails* or Throbbing Gristle, the back-straightening dystopian future response to our collective amoral dystopian present where folk like us (we like us) wrestle back three seconds of control and writhe. Your problem right now is failing to understand tyranny in all its varied and hetero normative forms, in believing that there is a dialogue taking place between YOU and THEM. You know how rare it is I bother to wade through the shit? I’d wade through the shit any number of times you want babe, just for one more listen. If anything about this screams fake or inauthentic to you then I humbly – no, fuck humbly – suggest to you that you’re listening in all the wrong places. Anyone else hear this as a natural continuation of the line started by ABBA and Babymetal and – oh fuck it, I don’t know – Sepultura years ago? Me neither. Catchier than a whole library-full of.

It’s retro-futurist rock opera for the scorned generation.

It never stops.

*Skinny Puppy, not NiN.

 

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