Somewhere in musical space there is a place of power where certain leylines cross. Where lurching dancability, post-punk post-motorik, and searching indie arpeggios convene.
In this place Wolf Parade howls, Interpol interlopes, Unicorns traipse, Arcade Fire flickers past.
Add Chad to this mostly-Canadian pantheon, the nervous energy of his album splinters anxiety into shards of joy and release, an uncorking of everything stopping us up.
I remember the polite fear I felt talking to people in the countryside just outside Toronto circa 2016. This is the natural extention.
I briefly tagged this with Segallsphere, so strongly does it buzz with the energy of Ty Segall, John Dwyer, Mikal Cronin. <- al.="" ashes="" blend="" chad="" clue="" especially="" et="" experimentation="" for="" in="" of="" p="" psychedelia.="" release="" riffage="" searching="" some="" that="" the="" ubovich="">VanGaalen's body horror obsession rides on, never stronger than the Upstream Color nightmare of Host Body, but it seems less about shock value than about a vector for grappling with the basic nightmare that is our own frail architecture, our consciousnesses in jars on stilts.
And through it all, it is hooksome and wholesome and welcoming -- curl up in a sympathetic knot of deeply human warmth and despair 4.5/5
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