Ambassadeurs – Forever

It’s Wednesday. The coffee is flowing and the caffeine stimulated part of my brain wants to dive into a new series, “Watch Out for These Guys Wednesdays” but honestly, that’s fucking stupid.

Corny marketing alliterations aside, please put the Ambassadeurs on your music radar. British Producer, Mark Dobson, is tricky on the knobs, drawing ya’in in with looping melodies.



Promises Ltd. – American Eyes

It’s just your opinion.

Jodi’s boyfriend nodded his head emphasizing each syllable.

Jodi has an ear for music. She played clarinet in elementary school and was early to the punch bowl when MGMT debuted “Time to Pretend.”

She made mix tapes for her friends, piecing together a track list, connecting beads on a necklace. She grew tired of hearing bloggers rave about “pulsating bass” and “the drop of all drops” so she started writing about music.

Jodi was looking for something. A way to measure quality so that its parts were laid out in front of her, nuts and bolts. But there were so many variables that her head rung, and her boyfriend’s words stuck.

It’s just your opinion.

It was. But her opinion mattered, right? She’d given Roosevelt the time of day. That had to matter.

But she hadn’t gotten any closer to finding a universal measuring stick and was convinced a computer generated algorithm would beat her to it. Or more likely, the Buzzfeed clickin’ generation wouldn’t care, to hungry for more! more! more! to stop.

Then she heard Promises Ltd.’s song, “American Eyes”-

It purposefully created an atmosphere for its listeners to live in. Like a protective bubble, the sound drew Jodi in until she no longer felt self conscious, abandoned all thought of quality, and wiggled into the shaky bass line.

Jodi played her boyfriend “American Eyes” and tried to describe the atmosphere it created, how it yanked at her heels, pulling her into a blissful groove.

But he couldn’t hear it. He preferred Yeezy.

So Jodi panned for inspiration, finally finding it in an old paperback on motorcycle maintenance.

“Absence of Quality is the essence of squareness.”

So she stopped outlining the forms, and instead let them speak for themselves – free to call out to anyone who listened. And when she stopped measuring, something amazing happened.



Marcus Marr – Killing Jarr

Social media is allowing people to communicate in revolutionary ways. Its never been easier to keep up with old acquaintances or connect with complete strangers.

Never been easier isn’t always a positive thing. Genuine connection becomes diluted as people frantically scramble to gain attention – releasing a fire hose of worthless self-promotion.

But then there are exceptions that cloud the issue. Billboard.com reports that Marcus Marr, a South London DJ, and Chet Faker, Australian neo-soul singer, met via Twitter messenger. There was a re-tweet, messages exchanged, voice memos swapped, and then eventually an EP with progressive, cranium-expanding music.

Interesting, right?

Follow Faker and Marcus Marr closely.



“The Zone”

After shooting for two years, Jack Coleman recently released, “The Zone” a 55 minute surf film dedicated to exploring an alternate surf dimension.

I was drawn to the film because of Ryan Burch (pictured) and Bryce Young. They’re both young Australian shapers and surfers who take to technicolor twin fins and asymmetrical shapes to reinvigorate the cutback. They’re the antithesis of predictable; stylists painting new colors in a stale category.

For the most part, that’s the Zone’s narrative – a cornucopia of free love, fin-less boards and edgy dudes doing cool shit on perfect waves. If you’ve got the time to light one up and sink into the couch for 55 minutes – do it. If not, the trailer is four minutes of pure surfing joy with a killer wah-wah powered guitar solo.

Spike – Kanti Dadum

THE ZONE surf movie from Jack Coleman Surf Films on Vimeo.



Sound Starved

I’m marooned at my desk. Sound starved. My headphones are at home so I sit with the toxic mixture of noise that leaks out of the office speakers like steam from a manhole.

What I want is a sonic Equinox. A place where I can work my neurons, sweat out the boredom, scrape off the plasticity. I crave wavelengths of sound. Release!

But as the end of the day approaches I begin to understand something. Resisting the impulse gives me a sense of control. I’m a general deploying troops.

The impulse changes and it’s no longer just sound I crave, but music. And hours later after I’ve biked home in silence, I turn on Tame Impala and skate through a misty neighborhood. Quite possibly the music sounds better than before. It’s more substantial. Louder. It jolts me into a mood.

And for the rest of the night I’m entranced by music. FKJ, Maribou State, Galimatias. A friend puts on Tor’s Origin Mix 01 and whatever plays seems to fit the scene.