Rating: 8.0

The Blood Brothers make me laugh. And before I go on I want to clarify, and say that the previous statement is in no way meant to be a derogatory comment towards the band. This isn’t mean spirited laughing we’re talking about here. It’s more the sort of laugh that slips out of your mouth right before it slides open into a broad smile. I think this reaction comes from actually seeing the group live, complete with over the top diva-esque posturing, and mountains of feminine screaming, but nonetheless it tends to stick with me as I listen to the Blood Brothers newest (and fifth full length album) Young Machetes.

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The concept of ambiguity in music is a strange thing. When used properly it is capable of providing an intended audience with a sense of profundity simply by offering concise, generalized sentiments. There even seems to be some sort of magic to this concept. It’s as if for a moment your logical mind just decides to turn itself off as an awful breakup cliché almost makes you feel like balling your eyes out. However, banking on this ambiguity as lyrical genius idea doesn’t always leave you on the steadiest ground. Most songs that traffic in ambiguity end up feeling just that, ambiguous.
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Happy Hollow is a fictional town set somewhere in the Midwest. It’s also the title and setting of the new Cursive album, and if you know anything about Cursive, you can probably guess that there aren’t too many folks within this small town that could actually be characterized as happy. If you have a son he’s off to war. If you have a job it’s killing you. If you know a priest he’s a closet homosexual. Or even better, he’s knocking up your daughter.
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Of the three nouns that make up the title of the new Thermals record “The body, the blood, the machine” it is the machine that is truly represented. Sure, the body, and the blood exist, (to sometimes slightly visceral effect) but only as a reaction to the machine itself. Humanity although present, is undeniably dwarfed by, and forever linked to this machine. Whether that machine is war, god, or a fascist state, it’s all just the same wolf in different clothing.
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When Takk was first released last year I remember feeling a little disappointed. It wasn’t a bad record, but it seemed to me Sigur Rós had wandered out of their caves built of ice, and I didn’t know if I was ready to see them dissolve into a sunnier and more upbeat affair. I missed the Sigur Rós from ( ) when they had the absurd confidence to make an entire album into a droning monochromatic monolith. Even the stark contrasts and experimentation that flooded Agaetis Bryjun seemed absent.
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