Perceptions about Cashmere Washington's "The Shape of Things To Come"

An ancient forklift sits in the corner of a Trust Co. warehouse, always ready to get some shit done, but rarely feels the need to rush the process; except when it's Old-man robot Mr. Withers' shift. Withers dusts the forklift off ann scoots on in. Forklift, pumped for the day, revs the engine and takes off weaving through the warehouse in a wheely. Together they toss titanium boxes across the work floor into evenly spaced cubbies, immediately dissolving with a flash of light. "Everything's gotta home" Withers sings to the forklift. A bell rings and the forklift slowly drops the wheelie and reparks itself. Mr. Wither scoots on out and walks off giving both forks a low-five. As the lights dim, Forklift doses off, once again feeling like the fucking man.

-Truth Soup

Perceptions about Yung Sham's "Impromptu Fantasies", out 4/1

Impromptu Fantasies by Yung Sham is a slightly disorienting and thoroughly heartwarming experience to listen through. I found myself repeatedly excited by the way each song wrangles the energy of a child mashing on a keyboard in excitement and shapes it with a delicate touch into a deliberate and sensitive collage of sound. I haven’t been this excited and drawn in by the first track of an album in some time (Guitar Song). There is something about how Yung Sham creates such a challenging and unconventional sound without forcing it–it’s organic. When the words begin to pierce the dripping wet reverb on Dreams, the existential sadness rings through into your bones. “To lose something so dear to you means everything. The existential worries particular to the time rest gently in its warm warble. The sadness is sweet and inviting with stabs of grit punctuating the wash. The final track, Piano Song ends on such a quiet, sincere, and fragile note carrying the underlying tension into the silence and leaving the listener in a soft, vulnerable contemplation. With Impromptu Fantasies, Yung Sham pushes the edge of pleasantness without venturing too far into the clamorous, creating a melancholy, lovable collection of vibrations with just enough bite.

-Jr. Owl

Observations around Monogamy's "Tonight Looks Bad"

"Tonight Looks Bad" comprises some of Monogamy's best work as a trio. They manage to bounce around between jangly acoustic pop to guitar riffs so heavy you want to smash a bottle on the floor! Synths and drum machine dubs are worked into every track just right. All the noise and energy finally gives way at the end to the quiet, self loathing slow-core track, "white can." Which has become my new favorite Monogamy tune.


Monogamy seems to me like an indie rock band. Their album, ‘Tonight Looks Bad’ is an interesting look into a unique sound with equally unique lyrics. Their album title fits well with the themes of most songs, which to me handle things like depression, drinking to forget, and trying to stay motivated. The band gives me very intense local garage band vibes; it strikes me as a band anyone could know and may have grown up listening to at local talent shows. The album has a good balance of slow and fast songs, and seems to pick up more on Side B of the album. The vocals give a mix of talking the lyrics and signing, though I feel like the lyrics were talked rather than sung a big portion of the time. I’m sure that’s a stylistic choice, as it was most evident in the song ‘I’m Sad All the Time.’ It works well creatively here because being sad makes it hard to do anything, including, I’d imagine, singing.

Vocals when sung were slightly out of tune, however if done on purpose, does give a more personable feel to the music presented; it felt like I knew them. Overall the lyrics were intriguing to listen to and I’d be interested to read the lyrics so I could get a full sense of the wording at play. In my opinion, ‘Never Seen You Dance’ had the best lyrics from what I could tell. All in all, I thought the album reflected a local, personable indie rock band with a pretty solid creative process.

– HANNAH LEWIS, @buggybabe on instagram

"A Yamaha keyboard from your childhood was left in a closet and spontaneously acquired self awareness. You discover it one day when rummaging about, searching for old journals. It’s only been able to develop a worldview by listening to the muffled vibrations that rattle through the door, from televisions left on in the house, and monologues performed by sleepwalking family members — midnight ministers discussing the inevitability of the apocalypse; dreams of you and your siblings parsed about in broken speech. The vapid environment that it was held in required a colorful expression to combat the darkness and stench of old shoes. Left to its own devices, the keyboard processed and compartmentalized this life using the plastic tones and industrial design at its disposal. Hooks and melodies warded off the insanity that accompanies survival in such a stunted world. It continued to call out to the room with pleas for freedom — there was never an answer. These passages of internment were stored behind the “PLAY” button to document its existence. You press the rubbery, red, rectangular button.

Listening, you both remember and unremember this life that you’ve lived. There are lines spoken from its slatted speakers that sound like incantations delivered by a hallucinating-daytime-cable-therapist, and distortions that fade in and out from years of electrical corrosion. The paythrough finishes, and a few phrases and melodies get stuck in your teeth. There seems to be an imminence of danger about these songs. You feel the need to return it beneath the folds of your jacket-strewn closet, but the instinct for partnership is too strong — you’ve maybe found a fitting soundtrack for this life. Choruses that could strengthen you against the grotesque oppositions of your daily routine; sonic expulsions that could release you from the mortal grip. The keyboard now resides underneath your bed. You pull it out whenever sleep refuses to come in the early hours — when nihilism beckons you away from anything real."

TINO, henderson century,