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But Teen Suicide's crucial novelty lies in how they connect modern forms of communication and dissemination-it's a celebration of how Bandcamp and Soundcloud can allow songs to be released in an instant while constantly mutating (this was not invented by The Life of Pablo) and, of course, any form of social media. His use of tape manipulation and sampled orchestral bric-a-brac dutifully marked in the treasure map-like credits ( Girlpool, Elvis Depressedly, Alex G, Porches, Owen Pallett and more) put him in the lineage of Elephant 6, Microphones or early Saddle Creek. It's hard to think of any album, probably ever, that managed to sound like these three and Sparklehorse in the same hour. "My Little World" touches on Aphex Twin's early ambient work, while the crackle surrounding the harps and strings on "V.I.P." carry the haunted-house eeriness of the Caretaker's Victrola memory experiments. The resplendent piano rolls of "I Don't Think It's Too Late" and "The Stomach of the Earth" are slightly scuffed and distorted, like a tear-stained take on the Range's recent emotronica. But the lo-fi recording quality serving as Celebration's binding agent has a far greater effect the further Teen Suicide get away from guitars. And this is just the first song.Īt their core, Teen Suicide is the most "indie rock" of Ray's projects and in that form, they write poignant song-sketches that can traffic in sarcasm ("it's not art unless you laugh, one of these days I'm gonna laugh") and have a poignant sweetness ("Falling Out of Love With Me"). As he shows with his projects outside of Teen Suicide, Ray is direct, omnivorous and unpredictable: Celebration feints at stop-start post-punk, patches in some nifty acoustic progressions on loan from Alex G's Beach Music, flirts with psychedelia and throws out some jazz noodling as well.
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This personality (or persona) is as crucial to full appreciation of Celebration as the music. Ray's ascent as an indie/DIY auteur has been propelled by his prolificity and his equally active desire to circumvent any barrier between him and his listeners.
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It's a party you can hear from down the block and yet still requires a password at the door. The ugliest song is called "Beauty," one of the prettiest is "Neighborhood Drug Dealer." It's constantly absorbing and equal parts astonishing and frustrating. Its intentions are messy: Sam Ray resurrected his old band by popular demand (vis-à-vis his other projects Ricky Eat Acid and Julia Brown) and will be touring throughout the spring, yet they are also calling it their last will and testament. Its presentation signifies wild ambition, but Ray appears more interested in capturing fleeting bits of casual brilliance than making good on grandiose designs.
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But who’s to say that Teen Suicide want to clean up their act? They have a certain rustic charm as is.ĭownload the album Bad Vibes Forever while it’s still free and stream a pair of tracks below.If you couldn't tell from the title or its 26 tracks or 69-minute length, It's the Big Joyous Celebration, Let's Stir the Honeypot is A) a glorious communal blowout and B) goddamn mess. I could imagine a similar jump in production quality as you got on the transition from Girls debut Album to their follow up EP and sophomore record Father, Son, Holy Ghost, if Teen Suicide had a bunch of money thrown at them. But lo fi has it’s own sort of poetry, and there are definite song writing chops percolating in the fuzz and buzz. It’s a rougher kind of work two of the tracks are clearly marked as demos, and the rest aren’t far off. If you can’t tolerate lo fi, then you better skip Bad Vibes Forever altogether.
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I haven’t seen this much unbroken pathos since the Le Days album, but Teen Suicide are a little more tongue-in-cheek, flaunting a Band Name Generator sort of humor to accompany their lo fi, pretty pop, garage rock demos. 2 pencil: "I HATE MYSELF"? Song titles like "I feel like dying", "Taking pills", and "Suicide"? This is a joke, right? Well, sort of.
Teen Suicide? With an album called Bad Vibes Forever? A Bandcamp banner that announces in scrawled No.
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