A cross-continental collaboration between a Berlin-based BBC employee (vocalist Nadja Korinth) and one deadly serious New Yorker (multi-instrumentalist/singer Ryan Schaefer), Palms eludes any easy reference points on their impossible-to-pin-down debut. Which is exactly why we fell for its 32 tidy minutes—presented by Nicolas Vernhes’ freshly-minted Rare Book Room imprint—in the first place. Quite awkwardly, mind you. Here’s the thing: Palms’ lyrical obsession with darkness and light is matched up with some rather unsettling music, bewildering but beautiful stuff that toes the line between being compulsively listenable and downright off-putting.

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[Photo by Sarah Cass]

By Aaron Richter

As we all know by now, new releases hit record-store shelves and digital-download services each Tuesday. That’s why self-titled presents the following every week: a new release you’d be stupid not to own (Buy It), one worth checking out if you’re the curious type (Burn It) and something you might have heard about but probably should avoid (Skip It). Simple, ain’t it?
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As is often the case with Southern Lord’s limited LP releases, Dømkirke’s vinyl-only pressing is so meticulously designed/packaged that it’s essentially an art piece masquerading as two 180-gram slabs of music. Doubly so since it involves Sunn O))), the New York Times-approved duo that churns out confusing—some would even say infuriating—drone/doom compositions you don’t listen to so much as lose yourself in.

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Um, isn’t it a school night?

Text/Photos by Andrew Parks

While it’s easy to accuse Justice of pandering to the lowest common lunkhead denominator (another bro-down set of serrated synth lines, climaxing in “We Are Your Friends” and “D.A.N.C.E.”? really?), such joyless cynicism—something we’ve been guilty of in the past, admittedly—completely misses the point.

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[Photo: Mike White/DeadlyDesigns.com]

By Aaron Richter

As we all know by now, new releases hit record-store shelves and digital-download services each Tuesday. That’s why self-titled presents the following every week: a new release you’d be stupid not to own (Buy It), one worth checking out if you’re the curious type (Burn It) and something you might have heard about but probably should avoid (Skip It). Simple, ain’t it? Read more

self-titled ignores Santos’ ‘no photos’ rule to score a disco inferno shot

Text/Photos by Andrew Parks

While our beloved CMJ Virgin had a hell of a time at the ‘Red Bull lounge’ on Tuesday night, it took the rest of self-titled’s staff all of 10 minutes on Wednesday to realize why we skipped CMJ last year. See a more thorough explanation here, but suffice it to say that we feel horrible for anyone that spends $495 for an official CMJ badge—money that ought to be spread between a handful of must-see shows and a lot of dranking … if that’s your kind of thing. If it isn’t, you could probably buy tickets to five solid bills and save hundreds, all while spending the rest of your time at parties that are free to begin with.

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By Aaron Richter

As we all know by now, new releases hit record-store shelves and digital-download services each Tuesday. That’s why self-titled presents the following every week: a new release you’d be stupid not to own (Buy It), one worth checking out if you’re the curious type (Burn It) and something you might have heard about but probably should avoid (Skip It). Simple, ain’t it? Read more

Text/Photos by Andrew Parks

We’ll get more into Crystal Castles‘ Airwaves meltdown later this week, in an exposé that just might make you rethink their whole ‘punk as fuck’ ethos—a meticulously-controlled image that’s been spread through major SPIN and NME features as of late.

For now, though, self-titled would like to share photographic evidence of Alice Glass in heat, a few songs before she tossed Tunglid’s house drum kit into an over-capacity crowd that ate up her every move. Alice Rotten antics aside, the venue’s staff wasn’t too amused. Considering the 8-bit-chomping, oh-so-dangerous duo was flown here all the way from Canada, it was unfortunate to see them disrespect the fest with a series of (staged?) temper tantrums. Yeah, we dig their music; the band’s post-apocalyptic debut is a wonderful catchy and caustic concoction, a promising taste of things to come … if they don’t self-destruct first. Or is that simply what they want us to think? Hmmm …

Oh, by the way: sorry for the ghost-in-a-machine look of these photos, but that’s what happens when a band insists on shutting all stage lights off and telling photographers—festival-issued pass or not—to essentially go fuck themselves.

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Text/Photos by Andrew Parks

The snow—mounds of fluffy, sticky white stuff that gave our camera a serious case of lock jaw—was only the half of it. From the first squiggly synth line to the last strike-a-pose strut of vocalist Daníel Ágúst Haraldsson, GusGus‘ live trio set was easily one of the most electrifying dance music performances self-titled’s ever seen. Yeah, it was a little heavy on the gay-house tip, and while there’s nothing wrong with that, such a subgenre can, and did, sound a little over the top. Which was the point, really. Ágúst looks and acts like a soulful version of Rufus Wainwright—pouting, preening and prancing while belting out jilted lover lyrics that sting like a couple slaps to the face. Don’t believe us, though. Study the shots below and make sure you see these guys the next time they’re in your town …

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Text/Photos by Andrew Parks

According to Ben Frost, the producer of their freshly-minted LP (The Blood), “Reyjkavík’s the real deal. They remind me a lot of At the Drive-In.”

An At the Drive-In reference on the first day of Iceland’s Airwaves music festival, as we’re fading fast from a red eye flight that left no time for napping or a proper meal? Um, we’re so there.

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