Guide The Horny Galaxy Chronicles - Part 4 - In Space, no one can hear your screams of pleasure

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The track project is one of the most energetic releases of the year, fueled by the chaotic wonder of the new generation. Since the demise of BiS, the oddball idol-pop band she was once a member of, the Hokkaido-born musician Tentenko has been experimenting. It's melody-first pop music packed with bright invention, seemingly devoid of focus-grouped compromise. Hopefully, it's just the start.

But despite that fact, the record is strikingly intimate. Elsewhere, synth lines coil around one another in soothing and seductive ways, acidic elements and pummeling percussion have the edges rounded off. The melodies are colorful and emotive, but they also seem designed to leave you space to think—to get lost in the tessellating, geometric sequences and tune in and tune out as you will. Black, statuesque… you know.

Strong, sweet, that's what I think when I think of noir. On the record, the St. Louis rapper embodies each of those traits. After 16 years, how was the biggest rock band in the world supposed to surprise anyone?

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Of course, sonically, We Already Lost the World sounds more like a balled fist than an extended handshake. Screaming in English while occasional hints of their French accents bleed through, the three-piece speeds through their style of emotional hardcore at such a fast pace that it often feels like their engine is going to blow. You should be partially convinced that Liz Harris is the reincarnation of a mystical healing figure. Harris is indeed connected to the spirit world in one way or another; she has said herself that she sees songs as entities.

Grid of Points slots comfortably into the pantheon of great Grouper records, aching and slow and sad and serene. Few songwriters have weaved together wry comedy and sharp misery as well as the late Scott Hutchison. Fewer still have had voices as warm, open, and honest.

His Lowlands drawl stretched across Frightened Rabbit's bittersweet high points, a troubled friend turning up out of the blue in a foreign city, cracking a joke before saying hello.

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Dance Music, the debut from an indie supergroup made up of Hutchison, his brother Grant, and members of Editors and Minor Victories, is loud, emotive, and free. The outlook is pitch-black in places, and tragedy is ever-present. We're so lucky that, still, he sang. Sometimes, this manifests in pure nightmare fuel. For now, you can just dance the terror away. Well, forget that.

Matador, her former label, allegedly wanted the follow up to her album Sun to be such a hit that they basically rejected it—the pressure propelled Marshall towards signing with Domino for this album instead. As a new mother too, the year-old juggles concepts of rebirth and renewal throughout. Especially with the Auto-Tune. Who knew that Beach House was actually a shoegaze band? Part of the shift can be credited to producer and ex-Spacemen 3 member Sonic Boom, who guided the Baltimore duo away from the polish and winsome of much of its past work and into the eye of recklessness and fragility.

Corpse Fortres s is a wonderfully joyless slog through zombie hell; its 11 depraved tracks crawl on bloody stumps, and lurch along with claws outstretched. It is unquestionably one of the nastiest recordings of All things considered, it should come off as showy—stupid, even. The rest of the album follows in equally crushing suit, although the other tracks are more meditative, tending to settle on one mood and take time unpacking it. Deafheaven has always been a band of extremes. Placing everything from bliss to destruction under a magnifying glass, the record mines the depths of human experience only to highlight how fragile it is.

More than anything, the album showcases Brockhampton as accomplished conductors of sound, refining chaos into higher-order music. The album—a seamless mix as much as a collection of songs—doubles as a reminder that Chilean-born artist owes as much to the kinetic tradition of the warehouse as he does to leftfield experimentation.

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Sirens relied on rhythm and silence to explore themes of history, memory, and oppression; instead leans on samples and melody, spotlighting the dialog and freedom preserved in the exchange and evolution of sounds. Montreal producer and songwriter Genevieve Ryan Martel, a. RYAN Playground, wears her influences on her sleeve. Teenage sentiments and Blink melodies abound in the follow-up to her debut, elle. On Forever , there are a range of devotions to women.

Popcaan is settling into what he wants his legacy to be: love, life, and dancehall. But NTS Sessions is strikingly cold and foreboding even in that context. You could turn it off when you start to feel that way, but the sounds on NTS Sessions are strangely intoxicating, a compelling case for giving yourself over to the machines. But that spirit extends to the music itself. Written and recorded over two years, the album is testament to obsessive craftsmanship, and how minutely tweaking and shaping a sound can give it its own life.

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This is a very cool record for music dorks. Later, she repeats it again, drawing it out slowly over thick, distorted riffs. Moments like these feel so striking and delicious, you want to bite down on them. While speeding through this glittery slime terrain, you realize how adept Walton and Hollingworth are at translating emotions into sounds.

The production swells, and a note sails over the track—a burst of sunlight through the stormy clouds. This album captures that process, and especially what it feels like to go through it in —assaulted by the computers, the phones, the electricity in the air. This is a record made by someone who is trying.

But they try. Keep trying. Look to the sky. Be optimistic. Hope for the future. At Moogfest earlier this year, Yves Tumor—real name unclear, current location unknown—took the stage in a cowboy hat, a white face mask, and black jacket with a Japanese character on the back. Tumor is a master at that sort of push and pull, and Safe in the Hands of Love , his Warp debut, sees him prodding our emotions with the specificity of a chef working with tweezers. But in its cataloguing of the many emotions that can live inside a single human being, it somehow feels more complete than most.


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On Bark Your Head Off, Dog , her scratchy vibrato is at turns fragile and boisterous, often on the same song—and as the album unfolds, she leads her band through the many fascinating corridors of their own making. The result is music that feels like it was made to be sunk into, pored over—almost ingested. But Hop Along strike that balance effortlessly, with a deft combination of precision, lightness, and intensity.

Yovel is an enigma—even within the confines of a genre like black metal, which prides itself on occupying shadows. Anti-capitalist, anti-fascist, and wholly uncompromising, the band crafts what they call "black metal for the oppressed," railing against Nazis and capitalist leeches in the name of resistance, blasting out riff after riff of Hellenic fury, and relying on an elegantly sense of melody to tie it all together.

Granted, some of those are vignettes, or spoken interludes delivered by writer and trans rights activist Janet Mock.

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And so Negro Swan manages to be his most autobiographical and intimate Blood Orange album yet, while also adhering to a porous structure. A few tracks into Gangland Landlord , Mozzy unspools a grand tragicomedy. As detail-packed as this little anecdote is, Mozzy condenses it all into just four lines.

One of the strangest aspects of the human experience is how feeling awful can suddenly and violently shift into feeling absolutely ecstatic. Mourning can lead to laughter, and tears can beget grins. A re-recording of an album written and recorded by frontman Will Toledo when he was 19, Twin Fantasy is a long, dense, emotionally rich song cycle about a broken relationship.

Most of its songs sit somewhere between six and 16 minutes long, but none of them would sound particularly out of place on the radio or in an arena. The track is a concise three minutes, and though it could, should, veer off, it maintains a degree of focus, with Ye lamenting the cycle of gang violence and Cudi asking the Lord to help him through his trials.

Teaming up enabled both of them to step outside themselves for a moment and create something beautiful. When the echoes of grief slow from pained screeches to a dull foreboding hum, what fills the vacated frequencies? Part of the genius of Now Only is in moments like that one—where he is able to find the humor in the absurdity of being alive. There is no right way forward, he seems to say, so you can laugh or cry—just do what feels right. Pacific Northwest doom metal icons YOB truly brought the thunder on their eighth album, a feat made even more impressive by the fact that it might have never been made.

Now, as always, YOB is love. At 25 minutes, Freddie does what longer albums often fail to do: It gets to the point.