An assemblage of alchemical postmodern indie-pop
They encapsulate fashionable life in however two phrases. It begins with one and ends with the opposite, a kind of begin and end however with no followable trajectory line between, at the very least, in line with their bandcamp page: “ENTERTAINMENT, DEATH doesn’t cohere in a single, unifying theme.” However by sheer juxtaposition of the 2 colossal ideas, a similarity emerges out of the opalescent cyclone of sound SPIRIT OF THE BEEHIVE conjures of their fourth full-length LP, ENTERTAINMENT, DEATH.
Hailing from Philly, the band’s first self-produced and -mixed album was laboriously recorded through electronic mail over the course of 1 / 4 yr because of the pandemic. The extended period of time affected by distant creation allowed a fine-tuned gestation. After recording and mixing the demos in digital, the album was then mastered to tape for a extra texturally diffuse sound.
Regardless of its supposed themelessness, it may be interpreted as a contemporary monomyth of a Byronic hero. The primary half of opener “ENTERTAINMENT” sonically depicts being pipelined by means of the chaos realm by means of disjointed drums and digital suggestions boops into an ordered physics of chicken twittering and acoustic strumming: the beginning of the hero’s journey. Lead singer Zach Schwartz wistfully sings, “I wakened once I heard the blow.” The hero has awoken however to a world already hollowed-out and bleary-eyed by leisure, and upon realization, inflates into the manic episode of “THERE’S NOTHING YOU CAN’T DO.” It begins off in loutish epiphanies gently sung by Rivka Ravede: “Sufficient is rarely sufficient,” “Spit me out or let me in,” till going berserk to an equally berserk overdriven guitar, Schwartz screaming, “I’M YOUR FRIEND,” uvula seen and shaking furiously, temple veins pulsating, face flushed.
Then there’s a post-storm calm construed by synth and featherlight vocals in “WRONG CIRCLE.” The track’s not completely with out its madness. Its infrastructure is vandalized at random vertices by wormhole distortions. In it, the hero finds group and stability however with a foul lot, and though it affords asylum from his previous, its intrinsic wrongness weighs on him. This sentiment suppurates in “BAD SON” and finally leads him to ponder, “what have I acquired me into?” within the trudging, bottom-heavy “GIVE UP YOUR LIFE.”
Then, there’s a renewal, a cinematic reemergence from the narrative’s nadir. The half-ambient, half-jazzy “RAPID & COMPLETE RECOVERY” describes the hero as “spanning lifetimes, compressed in a vacuum,” and although recomposed, remains to be misplaced within the ambivalence that triggered his downfall: “I don’t know the way to discover what I’ve to.”
“THE SERVER IS IMMERSED,” the album’s single, follows with a looping goth guitar and deranged, breathy lyrics as the entire track appears to lurch and undulate all through. The hero has found that he was moving into circles: “I used to be following/ paths I’ve already tried;” and addresses his malevolently deceptive interior voice, “No, you don’t have a clue/ however at the very least I do know that I do.”
Issues are wanting vibrant and auspicious till the interlude “IT MIGHT TAKE SOME TIME”—repeating its titular phrase over innumerable soundbite switches—could show to delay the hero’s progress. The cloyingly indie “WAKE UP (IN ROTATION)” zeros in on the hero paralyzed doubtful and self-inquiry, perplexed at “the purpose of all the things.” Then comes the penultimate, four-part “I SUCK THE DEVIL’S COCK,” the longest on the monitor listing. It doesn’t relate to something in regards to the track in any respect re its title—aside from portraying the dismal archetype of a middle-class American, which is definitely fairly approximate—however acts as a catalyst to the ultimate monitor. The endgame, “DEATH,” doesn’t come as an axe kick to the spinal column—although a pair previous moments of the report testify to the band’s potential to take action, and regardless of the reflex to count on it what with the title that means the annihilation of life in all-caps aggro. Quite the opposite, the tune is a tranquil daydream of glistening arpeggios and phased vocals like hallucinogenic-induced visible tracers. The album’s enigmatic shut, the hero’s reply on the journey’s finish resounds: “leisure, demise.”
As quickly as folks attempt to pinpoint a sound or sensation from ENTERTAINMENT, DEATH, it slips, and one other replaces it, and so forth. It’s as if it’s alive and in lively evasion from comprehension. Don’t bother your self even making an attempt; let it wash over you. It’s not meant as a type of albums to dissect, isolate, parse, analyze, evaluate, taxonomize. No, it injects itself into folks and balloons, disorients till a blissed-out state is achieved, one that’s maintained by its multifarious shifts that slyly outdo the final in its risky, blueprint-less gossamer sequence that entertains to demise.