TEAM SPIRIT - Killing Time (Vice Records)

Enter our newest golden boy, Killing Time, the full length follow-up to Team Spirits’ self-titled powerhouse EP/ collection of labia-strewn animated stoner shorts (like this one.)

The record is exactly what you would expect to follow the endlessly palatable debut, as the formula seems to have remained the same, although the fader marked ‘feelings’ may have been nudged up a tad. Following their cavalier anthems about religion and beach visits, a la every Wavves song since 2010, Killing Time takes a more classic approach to songwriting, leaning heavily on the tried and true pop music fuel of romance and the notion of satisfaction itself.

Although a first-listen can reveal that the bulk of the material is about diverse topics like wanting to have a good time, liking girls, loving girls, and loving girls better than you have loved them prior to penning said song, it is clear that there is a Cobain style theory of melody first and lyrics second. It is immediately apparent that the majority of verbal effort has been put to transforming each track into as much of an ear worm as the one before it.

Similarly, the sound of this record avoids any curve balls. The production is unwaveringly professional but never unexpected. The guitars, bass, and drums are never out of perfect syncopation, and the showcase arrangement is keen on stopping on a dime. The guitars and harmonies are all crisp, clean, and classic, and as a result, sucker punch power pop tracks like the single Teenage Heart come out of the speakers as perfectly as any song ever could. Does the ear-worm vocal hook, “Aye-ee-yae-ee-yae” also show up three or four more times on similarly blissful tracks like Surrender or Closer? Sure, but only because they know it works for them.

But as a Brooklyn band, it does seem peculiar that they would remain unabashedly dedicated to such a slick and upbeat sound. For example, the track "Cool Guy" opens with a gritty strut, the likes of which would sound at home on any early Joan Jett record. But before the groove can really settle in, Team Spirit can’t help drenching their dirty work in major-key saccharine syrup before the end of each chorus. The second any grit shows up, it's a matter of seconds before it gets shellacked over with a sugar bomb hook. Killing Time could have been effortlessly rearranged to pander more to Bushwick sensibilities by haphazardly throwing around a few tambourines, adding some anemic surf guitars, turning off their metronome and adding, say, 200% more reverb.

At a certain point, the sound of the record shifts from a solely aesthetic choice to a nearly-political statement. It is everything a Brooklyn band shouldn’t be in 2014, similar to what was said of The Hold Steady in 2006. It chose to daringly follow in the tradition of Lynott or Ocasek in the face of myriad pressures to conform to that of Marr and Malkmus.

But is catchy enough? Is fun enough? Is the purity of major-key power chord bliss worth the forfeit of thematic complexity or sonic experimentation? Can a band that has no intention of challenging the preconceived parameters of “rock and roll” be considered great so long as they excel within said parameters quite spectacularly? Can an artistically boring band be a classic band? The argument boils down, and bare with me here, to whether or not Cheap Trick is a good band. (Does this photo of my Halloween costume bias the question entirely?)

In Color came out at a watershed moment for American music, bringing little to the table aside from pop serenity and guitar chops, and yet it still stands as an undeniable classic. In 1977, Dave Marsh’s Rolling Stone review of the album opened with the harsh yet undeniable sentence, “There’s nothing progressive about In Color.”

Of course, he ultimately conceded to the undeniable charm and sheer enjoyability of the record in the same paragraph, but he had made a crucial point. At least in 1977, an uninteresting album could still be considered great, so long as it could truly stand on its own. And while Killing Time may not be a hotbed of allusion and erudition lyrically speaking, Marsh’s remarks on In Color circa ’77 reinforce the notion that great melody can make up for even the most hackneyed and vague stanzas. I found one of the greatest parallels between these two generation-spanning acts to be encased in Marsh’s pertinent observation: “[Cheap Trick’s] excellent, tough harmonies are used instrumentally, rather than verbally; I’ve heard these songs 40 times and have no idea what the subject matter of any of them might be.” This is the magic of bands like Team Spirit. I don’t know what the ramifications of having a ‘teenage heart’ would have on my relationship. I would never be caught dead telling someone that ‘I’ve got a case of the growing pains.’ But some works are so warm sounding and effortlessly anthemic that they instantly become relatable.

This album aims for fun. It aims for palatable. It never aims to challenge. When all is said and done, we need to accept and critique the record on the terms it lays down for itself. With that in mind, can we in good conscience fault it for failing to achieve goals it never set out to meet? We all know that Team Spirit’s Killing Time is not the thinking man’s rock and roll, but most importantly, Team Spirit knows it too, and they proudly wield that sentiment like a katana. Or, rather, like a Flying V.

God save the good and the straight forward. Hail, hail rock n’ roll.

PUJOL – Kludge (Saddle Creek)

Okay, blind taste test on this first track, “Judas Booth:” Surely you’ve been coerced into a Pepsi Challenge or two in your day in exchange for a free t-shirt or something of the like. You know the drill, but this time, you won’t wind up on a mailing list or leaving with a free Baja Blast hoodie. Just come over here for a second, put this on over your eyes, put these on over your ears, and take a listen. What do you hear? Some Jeff Lyne vocals and gated snare? Some Eno-esque soundscapes? Some arrangements that would lend themselves to Gene Simmons gallivanting around a stage atop a flurry of syncopated pyro-technics? I said the same thing. Now take the blindfold off. See?!? Its a just a dude playing at Death By Audio in a grey sweatshirt and a half-beard. Where is the glitter? The heels?

Don’t worry, he follows the first song with an aggressive return to Pujol-form with “Manufactured Crisis Control.” The chorus belts out, “The old me and the new me are in a fist fight,” in an Andrew WK crescendo-gasm of thundering drum hits and strum patterns that simply don’t let up from verse to verse. In fact, the track only intensifies as it progresses. It’s not unlike listening to the song have its own panic attack as it devolves into something resembling an Adolescents album skipping in a CD player (listen to it, it’s pretty crazy). Nevertheless, the song returns to the verse, remaining doggedly melodic in the face of all the frenetic arrangement, only to once again revert back to the jerky CD-like hits. Once you give your early Aughts Walkman a hearty slap, the skipping should give way to track three.

“Without even knowing it, you’ve drifted into a…” a recorded 50’s VO attempts to warble out of the track “Pitch Black” before getting cut off by Daniel Pujol’s ceaselessly crunchy Telecaster chords. When it comes to cute intros and auxiliary sound clips, ya gotta go all or nothing, man, and Pujol has unswervingly opted for a clear and confident ‘all.’ Recording gags, contorted static, extraneous noise beds, and general sonic miscellany are scattered all over Kludge from start to finish, mostly situating themselves at the beginning and end of each track. In a recent interview with Vice, Pujol commented on the heightened reality and cultural abstraction of the record, stating, “I wanted to make an album that sounded completely fictional. Like a cartoon nightmare; a tiny wind-up orchestra.” The overall effect transforms Kludge into something of a listenable MAD Magazine; ephemeral but not disposable, edifying but not informative, outrageously silly but still serious as a heart attack.

Which brings us to back to “Pitch Black,” the slam-dunk snare-hit mega-song of the album. I can’t say that it is the heaviest song on Kludge, nor the catchiest, or even the best, but I can say that it takes on the chief dilemmas of our times with a dutiful sense of focus and an unwavering earnestness that doesn’t fall back on metaphor or hyperbole. “Well there’s only one place on the planet left where it’s okay to turn off your phone,” he euphoniously growls in reference to the outlandish role that movie theaters play in 21st Century living. There are few other acts who would have the balls to put such blatant cultural indictments in pop songs. Knowing that a Pitchfork decimal grade was waiting for them at their release date would be enough to dissuade most greased-hair garagers from simply stating, “Well, we’re living in a very public world.” I am not saying that Pujol has earned himself a post as a columnist for the Atlantic; rather, I simply champion this song in accordance to the classic Orwell quote, “We have now sunk to a depth at which the restatement of the obvious is the first duty of intelligent men.” Restatement it may be, but “Pitch Black” rings true while Pujol’s fuzzed-out contemporaries stand silent in the realm of cultural commentary. Bravo.

The following track, “Circles,” pushes the tempo up a few notches and adds to the cartoon orchestra feel with some spiraling guitar leads and Ritalined-up tambourine tracks. “Circles” and countless songs like it on Kludge, in conjunction with the ‘cartoon orchestra’ sentiment, make the record feel like something that was made only by Pujol with the aid of a dozen of the little blue animated birds from Cinderella — their beaks all smeared with cheap blow, each frantically pushing faders and twisting knobs in the mixing process.

But still on a high from “Circles,” just before we explode from the breakneck pace of the record, he slips in “Dark Haired Suitor,” an answer to the question of whether or not he could live with any negative space on the sonic palate of the album. With a charming thrift store guitar tone and a thin rasp of a voice (in comparison to the layered snarl of the rest of the album), he proves himself to be a capable artist and songsmith in any environment he places himself in.

Which moves us to track seven: Perhaps I spoke too soon. In stark contrast, the song “Sacred Harp BFK” is as genuinely bad and abrasive as the rest of the record is just plain fantastic. I mean, it sounds like it was fun to record but… goddamn, is it tough to listen to. That’s really all I can say there, aside from commenting on how headache inducing the bass is. The record as a whole is wonderfully composed, performed, and produced, but I suppose Pujol reserves the right to subvert any of these expectations for at least one track.

Through the raucous buzz-stomp of “No Words,” the sparse freak folk tune “Spooky Scary,” and the Ableton Live meets old FAO Schwartz clock track “Small World,” Pujol keeps us reeled in until he lays down the final incisive blow of “Youniverse.” While there is an obvious three minute transgression from the dependable quality of Pujol’s entire career at the center of this album, Kludge stands as a nearly perfect modern rock record, combining timely cultural discourse, religious quandary, emotional unrest, and, of course, a healthy dose of nonsense. I haven’t heard anything in recent memory that seems to flawlessly combine the ideological realms of “Crust Punk Summer Camp Sing-a-Long” and “Lost Soundtrack to Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium Feat. ELO.” But I suppose Pujol has always been pretty unrivaled in that field.

HOWLER – World of Joy (Rough Trade)

Bear with me on this one--there's a lot I'm trying to accomplish here. I'm reviewing a record, sure, but I'm also trying to make you, the reader, understand my generation.

That's a big pill to swallow, I know, but we're dealing with a record made by someone my age, so I figure this is as good an opportunity as any to be your millennial ambassador. I would love to pull you into my world for a few minutes, on a journey of apathy, anarchy, "getting it," "gif.-ing it," self-doubt, self-importance, selfie-doubt, selfie-importance, that one show Skins that was cool for a while, fear, loathing, and iOS7.

From my time spent among the peoples of the Millennia, it seems that much of our cultural discourse revolves around finding a work of art to be either "cool" or "whatever." Many of my generation use the strain of Millenial dialect that would attach the article "like" to the latter of these qualifiers, and in that circumstance, "like" is a placeholder that means, "You understand what I'm talking about because we were both born after Reagan left office. In the spirit of brevity let's not clutter this with cumbersome adjectives. All hail Cyrus."

Knowing this, I'll break down Howler's new LP World of Joy, track-by-track, utilizing these two systems of ranking. A song will either be graded (by me, a Millennial) "whatever," or "it's cool." In rare and astonishing cases, a single track could be an amalgam of the two. Both terms will stand as qualifying scores that will judge the tonal intention of the content as well as how good I think the song is. But be careful, as positive and negative connotations are not mutually exclusive to "whatever" or "it's cool"; if I say something is "whatever," I could be saying that it kinda blows, I could be accusing it of being too dismissive, or being some kind of faux-fashionable charade, or maybe I'm just saying that it's really good at being "whatever." In the same manner, "cool" could mean that I think the track is highly enjoyable, or that I disapprove of its overt embrace of a guitar tone that is far too pastiche to be compelling in any way, or that maybe they're all just trying too hard. For that is the ceaseless beauty of the Millennial language: in opposition to the foundation of nearly all forms of human communication, words need not remain bound to definitions.

Cause, you know, we don't like labels. Don't put our words in a box, man.

Alright, X-ers, Baby-Boomers and the like. Let us begin:

1. "Al's Corral" - Whatever.

The first chorus on this record: "I won't say yes, but I might say maybe"

It's ridiculous and caricaturesque in nature, and it's a complete overexertion of our generational issues as non-committal semi-adults, but the satire is coming from someone who shrugs and eye rolls his way through every interview he's involved in. I was tempted to give this track a "whatever, bro" just from the lyrical content alone, but it is a rollicking start to the record, and the new tonal direction of the band is refreshing.

2. "Drip" - It's Cool.

Lets see here… guitar sound effects that emulate lyrical content, a sonic approach to structure, and lyrical cadence that borrows from old style rock and roll while paying homage to surf aesthetics, while…waging a cultural critique against the shortcomings of your own lifestyle as well as the powers that be within the world of musicianship. Well, I hate to say it, but these are all signs of caring in some form. Rather unmillenial of them, but I'm gonna give these guys an "its cool" for referencing artistic forbearers in a tasteful manner, having a set of somewhat pointed and directional lyrics, and for just trying to do things. To put it succinctly, I gave it an "its cool" because there is a distinct lack of "whatever" in this track. The ideal millennial doesn't think stuff, like things, or do anything except be cool or whatever, you know? Its like, "Cool reverb, bro."

3. "Don't Wanna" - Whatever, It's Cool.

As I said earlier, to pen a song that is a crystalline blend of the two qualifying terms provided is an incredible accomplishment; one that should not be overlooked. Not only is this the song where the aesthetics of the band hit their stride in full, but the song effortlessly glides into the realm that can only be described as anthemic. What really works here is the nature of the millennial attitude that gets channelled- there is no spite, no malice, no inconvenience to others. Whereas "I might say maybe," from the first falls short of a polished example of Westerbergian word play, and comes across as a verbal eye roll, here we find the opposite polar end of the record, not but two songs later. "You don't even have to be a punk if you don't want to." It takes true songwriting craftsmanship to enable such verbal simplicity to possess such an incredible level of functionality. "If you don't want to." Four words carry the weight of the entire song; an entire people. My people. We're directionless societal drains, but we finally have an anthem.

"Don't Wanna" is a part of something much bigger than itself, as it has joined the ranks of the elusive and mysterious works that perfectly convey the dichotomy of the simple three or four chord anthem, which is:
A: Repetitive three or four chord songs are easy. This is true.
B: If you know these chords, which are very easy, you too can make a song as good as this one someday. This is a lie.

"Don't Wanna" is where Howler take leaps and bounds away from just being a verbed-out buzz-band and briefly align themselves with the storied lineage of the best liars in the industry- the Zimmermans, the Pettys, the Cuomos: rockstars and writers who can convince their audience that the perfection of their own Billboard 100 3-chord songs are somehow comparable to those made by civilians, simply because they come from the same simplistic tri-chord soil. What I mean to say here is that this song is a month-old classic, and it takes true skill to compose a classic. Succinctly put: "Don't Wanna" is the simplest song that you could never write.

It's a single melodic shrug, a tremendous one, and it might just be the millennial "All You Need is Love."

Whatever. It's cool.

4. "Yacht Boys" - "Whatever" Meets, "Pfft, Whatever," which actually amounts to, "it's cool," somehow.

The chorus: "Too busy choking on my medicine, but, lord, haven't you heard that nothing ever happens… not ever." Then the fuzzed out Dick Dale lead riff. Yacht Boys is a hook stuffed number that addresses both class difference and personal indifference- the bread and butter of the mic'd millennial, and Howler nails it on this one as well.

5. "In the Red" - "Yeah, it's cool, but whatever."

The start stop showmanship of the first LP is present in spades on tracks like this one, although the glittering angles have been replaced with the garbage disposal grumble of some grungier guitars played in bouncy strum patterns. The finer points of the record come from shimmering chorus, 12 strings, and Rickenbacker pickups; some real REM type stuff.

Well, bringing this up might be shooting dirty pool in a review penned by a self-proclaimed chill dude or whatever, but I suppose it's as good a time as any to raise it as a point of discussion.

A black Rickenbacker (like this one) and an orange Fender offset guitar (like this one) have become part of the band's main touring rigs now- and I have to say that its all very oedipal… or is it Freudian? Who knows? Because, you know, cause he's dating the daughter of the guitarist from that band with the feelings and the Morrisseys. I mean, my girlfriend's dad builds motorcycles, really cool ones, and I think that's awesome, but I'm not going to start rebuilding old café racers in my garage if only for the reason that I believe modern romance is enough of a Freudian minefield as-is.

But as we bring ourselves back to the record, and as I switch from catty gossip-blog columnist back to almost-semi-respectable amateur music critic/ millennial linguist and behavioral analyst, it's clear that In The Red is one of the finest Howler tunes released to date. I mean, it's no Don't Wanna, but it's still great. That's another thing we do by the way, we rank shit. Did you ask us to rank anything? Does it help that we rank everything? Don't start asking questions, we'll rank you in something so fast that you won't even know what happened. Like these guys. And thats how we treat our wildlife. Just think how brutal your compartmentalization will be.

6. "World of Joy" - It's Cool, 'Cause Whatever.

Extensive sarcasm: whatever. Tambourine: cool.

7. "Louise" - It's Cool

Feelings and self doubt: cool. No tambourine: whatever.
In the traditional millennial sense, there is really no trace of "Whatever" on this track at all. Louise, a real powerhouse anthem of adoration and insecurity might be the most feeling and performative tumult we've seen from this group. Grown-ups, suits, or un-chill, high-key bros would probably give this song a high numerical or star-based rating. I don't disagree with them, but I'll just give it an "It's Cool."

8. "Here's the Itch that Creeps Through My Skull" - Whatever because whatever.

It takes guts to show vulnerability and sincerity on a rock record. It takes bravery to peel off the veneer of apathy and bravado to reveal the human underneath. It takes courage. It takes authenticity. Or maybe just a manager that says, "I don't know, you should toss a slow one on there too." Regardless, its something new from Howler, who took the time to turn down on the last two.

However, I can't get all the way through a Howler review without at least touching on his voice, which is, to say the least, a strange beast. While it certainly came off as excessive on the first few spins of their first LP America Give Up, (there was a period where fellow Beat columnist Layne Montgomery and I used to do extensive imitations of his broken croon on drinking outings; almost as much as we did Elvis Costello) his signature inflection seems to have come into its own on this record, fluctuating between roaring grit and cool disdain within the span of a single line. Having said all that, there is a truly disarming vocal tone on the track, and you see behind the curtain and hear someone who, not that long ago, was only seventeen. Millenials don't acknowledge their pasts. Except on the holy Throw Back Thursday.

I was gonna give it a whatever, straight up, but then I pictured how cool everyone would look when swaying to this song live.Like this. Aw, fucking christ do we love our gifs.

9. "Indictment" - Whatever, Bro

YouTube ads. Whatever.

10. "Aphorismic Wasteland Blues" - It's Like, You Know?

Tambourine. So whatever, it's almost cool.

SKATERS - Manhattan (Warner Bros.)

by Pete Kilpin

Manhattan: A Great Record with a Bad Title by a Band that is Scared of Doctors

I've been talking a lot about this band for a while now. A bunch of people have been, but mainly in two different manners. The first of which can be encapsulated in their VICE revlurb: “Oh, you formed a budget Strokes clone and you named your major-label debut Manhattan? That's cool. Here's a message from everyone in Brooklyn: Eat a dick, you fake fucks.”

The second is something like, “Oh. Yeah. They're the best.” After seeing them a handful of times and already wearing out their first record, I can say I'm leaning much closer to the second opinion.

I do feel for the guys having to endure the ceaseless comparisons to Les Strokes. It's a damn shame that the sultans of the new/old guard Manhattan-style cool are still the only point in literacy for the music press to talk about accessible modern rock, but sometimes journalism is hard, I guess. But I also have to admit, they had it comin' in some aspects. They run in the same circles, stomp the same ground, arrange their instrumentation in a pretty similar way, and their guitarist was playing a Nick Valensi signature model for the first couple shows I saw. I mean, come on guys. Cover your tracks on that one.

Regardless, frontman Michael Cummings has proven himself an incredible songsmith on Manhattan. The record is as exhilarating as it is plainly enjoyable, and there is something truly essential about each song in the mix. Any complaining about the album is largely removed from the first or second listen, as the striking soundscapes and deft pop composure keep the listener engaged from start to finish, save a couple lulling Jamaican dance-hall numbers. Not to say those super-mod groove tracks suffer from a dive in quality either, but they lack the sense of immediacy that the other numbers provide. For instance, the song 'Fear of the Knife' meanders a bit, but they won me over with their paralyzing fear of doctors' offices. As they used to say on American Bandstand, “It's got a good beat, it's got lyrics that critique western medical industrial complex, and I can dance to it.”

Following the urgency and rapid fire down-stroke guitars of the opening track, “One of Us,” an ode to the band's new island-playground, I did find myself worrying that I had stumbled into an album solely comprised of two-guitar arrangements supporting firsthand accounts of Baudelarian urban leisure;, but I can tell you now, it isn't JUST that. It's a lot of that, but not just that. And as a lazy album reviewer, I can say that, like The Strokes before them, their lyrical strengths stem more from their emotional travails than from their roles as tireless urbanites (give me 'You Talk Way Too Much' over '12:51' any day).

The band has been very vocal about citing classic art-rock bands like the Clash as influences, and they seem to have a profound impact on the carefully curated aesthetics of the band, but their sonic life-blood seems to be something far less abrasive than they're willing to let on. Their unabashed relationships to sweet melodies and focused guitar parts seem to conjure memories of late 90's guitar groups with widespread ambition. To put it bluntly, the glossiest parts of Manhattan feel a little closer to the band Fastball than they are to P.I.L. Is that an uncool comparison? Absolutely, but Skaters aren't trying to challenge your perception of marginally aggressive, major-key pop music, they're simply challenging the mode of its presentation.

The compound result of their collective production choices has taken what could have been a straight-forward, major-label rock record, and turned it into an intentionally disjointed collection of distorted stems. They wanted the record to have a DIY hip-hop feel, as though it were constructed entirely from samples, and the final product was quite successful in that regard. “Nice Hat” is a fantastic and frenetic hardcore song, presumably about their major-label blues, that sounds like someone sliced up half a dozen Husker Dü songs into one cohesive track. Of course, you can't ignore the irony that this process of lo-fi-ification was achieved with the aid of some of the most expensive outboard gear on the planet, but again, the fact that the record sounds so good heals all its own wounds. The hook on 'Miss Teen Mass.' is so huge that we'd be listening even if they didn't smother it in eBay drum machines. The songs are strong enough prior to their deconstruction that they shine through in spite of their veils of experimental plasticity. The same goes for all their big ones, 'Deadbolt', 'I Wanna Dance', and 'Schemers', each as breathlessly exciting as the last, even with every ounce of skewed studio slickness.

The album is also laced with field recordings of their time on the town to give it a more geographically-bound feel, but the overwhelming sense of place is already established by the songs themselves. Tracks like 'Symptomatic' were meant to be heard bleeding through the brick walls of Bowery basements, with the band's volume rising and falling as each showgoer opens a back door for a quick cigarette. These tunes couldn't be from anywhere else but Manhattan. So when the “Please stand clear” voice of the NYC subway system opens the album, it already feels like overkill. Nothing superfluous ever really kills the flow of the record, they just sometimes distract from the great content at its core.

Admittedly, some of their strays into social commentary are a bit peculiar. The satirical yet underhandedly anthemic 'To Be Young' strives for Randy Newman-esque subversion but falls short under the greater banner of the album. To be a major-chord Bowery Ballroom band critiquing the socialite elite is a bit like making fun of the cool kids sitting at the other end of the cool kids table, but I'll be goddamned if the song isn't catchy as all hell.

So sure, there are some bones to pick with this record, but strangely, most of these issues are negated simply by being encased in truly great songs. Nit-picking aside, Manhattan is one of the most exciting debuts I've heard in a very long time. So, as a Brooklynite, I would love to extend an olive branch, one borough to another. It's not an unprecedented record or a cutting-edge record, its just a great one. And if making great records is cause for Brooklyn to tell you to eat a dick, well then, to Skaters, I still say: Eat a dick you fake fucks, because the next round is on me.

“3 Reviews of Goodman's Isn't It Sad,” or


“The Problems of Knowing the Dude You're Reviewing”

by Pete Kilpin

If you're reading this, you already know that Jersey Beat didn't make its name just by covering the shimmering crazes or major label ephemera that have been hurled our way over the last thirty years. Surely, you understand that this opposition to the tendencies of the main stream music press is a cornerstone of its mission statement, and, OF COURSE, you know that Jersey Beat's ability to become embedded into the fabric of movements, subcultures, and scenes is its main source continued vitality. Of course you knew all that. You're reading Jersey Beat.

Having said all that, its also well-known that Jersey Beat operates with a tremendous amount of objectivity and professionalism when it comes to its particular brand of music criticism. However, when writing for a decidedly "front-lines" institution like Jersey Beat (can I just call it 'The Beat' or should I say 'Jersey Beat' every time? I don't know, I'm new here,) the reviewer can often become so entrenched in the scene or in the personal lives of the bands that he or she is reviewing that biased impartiality can inevitably enter into the picture. Many find that this element can bring an enriching and fresh perspective into the art of music criticism, while others can find it irksome and unprofessional. I'm not here to say that I prefer one to the other, or to pledge my allegiance to a single methodology, rather, I'm simply going to take advantage of the fact that I have a choice: If I find myself reviewing a record made by someone I know personally, should I do so with detached professionalism, or should I let my sense of kinship and predilection run wild across the page?

Take my friend and Mama Coco's label-mate Goodman's new record Isn't It Sad. I'd love to review it impartially, but I simply can't. I hang out with him all the time, he drunkenly emcees our band's shows without being asked, I've known the record's producer for years, and my brother just bought a guitar from the guy who mastered it.

On top of all that, last night, I saw Goodman at a party and he told me, "You know, when we were in the studio, if I was ever unsure about something, Oliver [veteran record producer and novice human producer] would say to me, 'Just imagine, like, Peter Kilpin listening to it…' and we'd kinda shape something around that…" Obviously, it doesn't get less impartial than that, as I am, literally and individually speaking, the target audience.

And finally, as though I couldn't illustrate how inseparable this record is to my personal life thoroughly enough, Goodman ruined the premiere of House of Cards for me last week by giving away the ending. But I can't put all of that into a cohesive review. On one hand, I can't fairly review the record because it was literally made for me. On the other hand, I can't fairly review the record because Goodman is also an asshole. So seeing that this record can't be professionally compartmentalized in isolation from my personal life, I'll have to go about it in a different way.

I'll attempt to review it in three distinct and separate manners. The first: an entirely impartial review. The second: an intimate and inevitably biased review that takes our personal relationship into account. The third: a spiteful and emotionally charged review of his record, seen as a worthless product made by someone who ruins the biggest plot twist in the entire series of House of Cards just because he thought it would be soooooo fucking funny to put it on his Facebook.

The Impartial Review:

NY-based-pop-craftsman/solo-singer-songwriter Goodman's sophomore album, Isn't It Sad," begins in the same way that his first one did. Seconds after hitting play, something incredibly familiar oozes out of the speakers: Airy room tones, palm-muted power-chord plucks, and a faint wash of organesque polyphonic reverb. Perhaps it's not as sinister as this, but Goodman seems like an artist who knows a thing or two about branding. He has a reputation for being pretty particular about his guitar sound coming across in a recognizable way, and he doesn't let a lot of his tonal characteristics, vocals, drums, or otherwise, change too drastically from track to track. He wants a Goodman record to sound like a Goodman record.

And just like a Goodman record, it takes a moment before it barrels out of the gate on its title track, utilizing a bouncy rhythm section, and a razor-sharp set of stacked vocals in each refrain. He knows what tools need to be pulled out of the drawer to make a seamless power-pop record. Perhaps he read the comment cards on the first record and returned intent on making minor, but noticeable, changes in his form. His use of melody and language are more engaging and interesting than ever before, just as his vocal technique appears to have advanced ten-fold. Each song structure is perfectly suited to showcase his harmonic dexterity, giving his masterfully controlled squeak ample space to leap from one octave to the next without breaking a sweat.

The record also seems to be an exercise in restraint, perhaps for the good of his persona. The songs never give you what you want right away. They make you wait for the full-energy choruses or raucous verses, and even then, the guitars always stay clean, leaving you aching for a touch of aggression, be it a distortion pedal, a gritty organ part – something. Similarly, the album never gets cluttered. Songs like "Anywhere" take special care to never confuse a melody. You won't likely find any hidden guitar parts on future rotations. Everything that needs to be heard gets heard.

The lyrics are unmistakably pop, and exist within a storied lineage of boy-loves-girl, boy-hates-girl, boy-hates-self, boy-loves-hating self, etc. I mean to say that, on first listen, the lyrics have to come across as clever before they can concede to the painful emotions or ideas that lie beneath them. The resounding sentimental truths in the first verse of "Blue Eyed Girl" are all sitting there, but only after you think "that was a great rhyme," to yourself a couple of times. There are, however, a few exceptions, where he ventures into more conceptually ambitious territory on songs like "This is Our Youth" and "Like What They Like," turning a critical eye to the city's nebulous cultural landscape while attempting to sketch out his own piece of the puzzle.

The enjoyment and accessibility gleaned from the composition, production, and performance of these songs make them feel like the product of a true pop aficionado; the Jason Faulkners and Adam Schlesingers of the world. There is something effortless about his creations, but no less enjoyable than any other song. Goodman, something like a late-night staff writer, seems to have written a thousand of these things, and went with the good ones. Like any great pop song, they feel as disposable as they do classic.

The Personal Review:

There's this guy I know, Goodman, and he just made a record. It's great. Don't let the cover weird you out. It's not all that different to his last one either, it has the same guitar sound, drum sound, Oliver is producing it again, it's the whole nine. Word on the street is that he's pretty anal about his vocal takes, which are, you know, always great, but it takes a lot of energy to get them perfect. He's also really particular about making sure Zac Coe is always doing that same "Boom BAP BAP- Boom BAP- Boom BAP BAP" drum pattern thing on almost every song. It's like, he knows who he is and he wants you to know too. I mean, He's had the same haircut for I don't know how long, and he's got that jacket that he always wears...same with the scarf. Could be 90 degrees he'd still have a scarf. Buddy of mine saw him wear it at the beach once. It's like he's trying to brand himself or something.

So here's the weird part. Goodman came up to me at a party the other night, and he was like, "Yeah, we would talk about you listening to the record when we were making it…" or something like that. So, does that mean that it was made for me? If I don't like it then does that mean they failed in making their record? If I don't like how the acoustic guitar sounded; does that mean that they failed at recording those guitars? I don't know. That's heavy. I don't know, the lyrics are kind of a bummer sometimes. But it's cool. The record is cool. He's a funny guy too, but like, pretty much mainly on the Internet.

The Reactionary Review:

Figures you'd have a picture of yourself on the cover of your record, you stupid ass hat. I'm gonna choke you with your stupid fucking scarf. Isn't it sad? Yeah. Yeah it's pretty fucking sad that I don't get to experience the season fucking premiere of House of Cards the way everyone else got to. Last week I heard my roommate watching it and then he was like, "OH MY GOD. THATS CRAZY" and I was like, "What?!?" and he was like, "You'll see, man." I couldn't wait, Goodman, I couldn't fucking wait. But that night, it all went south.

I went on Facebook, and scrolled through my news feed. And what did I see? "RIP Zoe Barnes #HouseOfCards."

He just said it. Without an ounce of remorse. What kind of monster does that? What kind of morally void scum sucking bottom feeder bowlcut goon face weasel says something like that as though they couldn't imagine anyone caring that much about anything ever GODDAMMIT GOODMAN HAVEN'T YOU EVER FELT LOVE? OR COMPASSION? Is there a bowl ut around your heart keeping you from letting anyone in, or get too close? Why would you hurt so many people like that? They were people you loved and who loved you, I read the comment thread.

Zoe Barnes is dead and I didn't even get to enjoy it. You know who did? The FUCKING PRESIDENT! He tweeted about the show and he said NO GODDAMN SPOILERS. YOU DISOBEYED THE MOST POWERFUL MAN IN THE FREE WORLD! Do you feel like a big man now? Fuck this fucking record. It is sad, Goodman. It is sad.

Also I've still only seen the first episode so… no more spoilers.

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