Ariel Pink

Ariel Pink

The idiosyncratic pop of Ariel Pink has long been critically applauded by everybody who had been slathering praise on Animal Collective (after AC discovered the Los Angeles song-sorcerer), Throughout his brief career, Airel Pink has never been easily digestible thanks to production standards stuck in the mud and a trainwreck approach to multi-tracking rhythms; but out of the sonic dreck, Pink has always exhibited a knack for conjuring uncanny pop hooks that tap into the collective consciousness of anybody who grew up in the late '70s and early '80s listening to AM radio where the quintessence of heaviness would be Night Ranger or Journey. Liberating pop hooks from one-hit wonder jangle, disco-lite pop, white soul crooning, and schmatzy power ballads through his chemically deranged yet free-spirited aesthetic

Kirin J. Callinan

You are Kirin J Callinan. You are from Australia. You don’t put a period after your middle initial. You slick your hair back, mostly to keep it out of the way. You will be moving a lot, herky-jerky.

You are playing your first show in the United States at the Glasslands Gallery, in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, in a showcase sponsored by Terrible Records, your label. You spend 10 or 15 minutes before your set on your hands and knees, setting up a dozen or more pedals in a semicircle in front of your microphone. You wear two black gloves, like what cyclists might wear. Your tank top is loose, weathered, and tucked into your jeans. You look like you are setting up votive candles.

You set up a lone snare drum to the right of the pedals, a microphone attached to it. You sling a guitar over your shoulder. You take off your gloves. You wipe away some wetness from underneath your nose.

You speak, briefly, in two tones of voice, one groany, one light. You begin to sing, such as it is. You are crooning. You stop crooning. You sound like you are sneering. You look uncomfortable, awkward, maybe a little unstable. You slash at the guitar. You start to build beats by manipulating a few of the pedals. You are going at a few speeds at once. You probably read some Brecht.

You remove your shirt to reveal some scrawled tattoos. You change gears, go loud, go electronic. You maybe downloaded some Atari Teenage Riot. You stop. You return to the intermittent crooning. You are moist with sweat.

You bring out a small towel with your name screened onto it. You tell the crowd, which is full of young women in great glasses and young men with artisanal mustaches, that only four such towels exist in this country. You say they are for sale. You suggest using them as small bathroom towels. You say you would use it in your home gym. You are hilarious, after a fashion. You probably read some Hipster Runoff.

You return to the crooning, as it is. You pound that snare. You stop pounding the snare. You toss the drumstick into the air behind you.

You hold your guitar by its body high into the sky, letting feedback swallow the room. You keep it aloft as you fall to your knees. You stand back up. You take a small bow, like a child actor at the end of a junior high school play.

Purple Pilgrims

Heavily-buried psych warble from sister act Clementine and Valentine Nixon on Antony Milton’s Pseudo Arcana label.



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