Articles

What's in a song? Per Google's definition, dawg: "a short poem or other set of words set to music or meant to be sung." It's the latter portion of which I find myself wrestling; I am naturally dumb so it is, perhaps, an explanation as simple of my own dimwitted wiring. If it is "meant to be sung" it's by virtues its very own features an aria that's never had air; and thus never been heard. When I am au naturel in the shower, gazing in gaping awe at my flaccid Excalibur, are the musical notes emanating from my self-wonderment an actual song? Probably not, right? Furthermore, would anyone want to listen to it? Doubtful. That's aging gracefully or so I suppose, but here at SYFFAL, we adhere to something that's more along the lines of Scorched Earth-No Holds Barred-Naked Old Cray Men-Train...

I’m just going to be honest here. The first thing that caught my eye was this dude’s name. DOUG. That’s it, just DOUG. Not DOUG E. Fresh or Teach Me How to DOUGie. Just fucking capital fucking DOUG. One of my closest friend’s name is also Doug (not capitalized though) so I jokingly sent him an email stating that someone stole his rap name. Then I was like, well ok, let’s see what “DOUG” is all about. HOLY SHIT. DOUG just fucking schooled me bro. DOUG ain’t fucking around ok? Dude has this southern twang to his voice that sounds like Ludacris dipped in Outkast with a side of Yelawolf. DOUG’s voice sounds like it is lathered in lube. DOUG not only raps his balls through his belly button but he also bangs beats on most of these tracks. That might not seem like a big deal these days but go...

Joel says Ok, so the France speaker in the beginning of this fucker threw me off. I was expecting to hate this. Then I'm all swooping my hips to and fro and fro and to and to and to and fro and fro in my desk chair and all of a sudden the phones are ringing and I'm shoving rainbow sherbet in my face like a fiend. Whoever the Fuck Panic Is Perfect is, I want them to unvasectomy me, because this track is bound to get a muthafucker in a humpin' ass mood. Poppy and catchy and bouncy and catchy and infectious and catchy, the only antidote to this song's fucking awesomeness is fucking sleep. I JUST WANT TO RUN THROUGH THE HALLS OF MY HIGH SCHOOL AND SCREAM AT THE TOP OF MY LUNGS "THIS IS HOW SEX MUST FEEEEEEL!". Does that make me weird? Tom says Holy shit. Vampire lips biting my fingertips. I...

BEFORE WE BEGIN BRO. SCROLL DOWN AND HIT PLAY BRO. YOU FEEL THAT IN YOUR UNDERCARRIAGE BRO? Whoever the fuck Big Jaw are, they have fucking rock testicles with fucking wifi they're so perfectly welcome in my face holes. JESUS BALLS ON A TURQUOISE CORSICA I WANT TO DRINK TECATE AND SPIN IN CIRCLES WHILE A CLEARANCE AISLE SPRINKLER SPRINKLES ME WITH WELL WATER TASTING WATER DROPLETS THAT REMIND ME OF OVERSEAS TRAVEL AND STOMACH UPSET. Big Jaw starts their six track album, Photophobia, with such insanely massive riffage, it's a wonder I even got past the first thirty seconds let alone the first fucking song. This shit feels like Foo Fighters gang raping the Black Keys while Helmet's Betty album spins in the background and everyone's got those Black Hole Sun melty faces happenin' bro...

8 years. That is how long it's been since Damien Rice has released an album. And I have a feeling that I'm probably the only one at SYFFAL who is down with Damien Rice because his songs are on the verge of being overly sappy, but I can't deny the feelz they bring to the interior of my pants. His fucking Irishy voice is so damn smooth and he is the master of introducing some stringz at those perfect moments....those moments when you already have goose bumps, but he makes them grow even more and you can feel your skin stretching to the max. ...that's what Damien Rice does. 'I Don't Want To Change You' is the first track off of his album My Favourite Faded Fantasy that will be out on 11-11 and is produced by Rick fucking Rubin. Does that excite you as much as it does me? If it does...

I've said Busdriver is the Frank Zappa of Hellfyre. And Neitzche Cortez, its Captain Beefheart. For the sake of the game let's say Nocando is its Mick Jagger, Open Mike its Harry Nilsson, and Milo its Brian Eno. In my completely ridiculous opinion manufactured for the sake of my very own fucking entertainment, Sir William Red Thedford IV is Hellfyre Club's Ozzy Osbourne. It was either that or its Jim Jones. But Jim Jones wasn't nearly as acerbic, mordant, or fucking talented as WRTIV, koolaid or no koolaid. Ozzy, though, as godfather of snorting up lines of ants like cocaine and chomping off chiroptera heads, and attracting the devout parallels Thedford's contributions as the godfather of the, THANG THANG and the sole proprietor of the ThuggyCult. As William Red will tell you it'...

I know nothing about WeWereAstronauts. Bro, I only know what I know bro, and what I know bro has nothing to do with WeWereAstronauts bro. Welp, I should mention that lately I've been waking up in the middle of the night with a need to look out the front winder and when I do get up to look out I've seen the same big black bird sitting on my car staring at the winder I'm staring out of. It's all very Crow bro. But I DO know that the first time I heard the new EXCLUSIVE SINGLE from WeWereAstronauts titled Music City was the LAST TIME I knew nothing about WeWereAstronauts bro. Music City starts out like an Alabama Shakes tap takeover, but once you burp a few times it starts to sound like the Kings of Leon. But the guitar work tells you these guys are a bit more creative in...

I like good people. With citizens being blasted with gas and bullets and batons and journalists being beheaded and ransomed and a government seemingly operating on a second grade level with their ability to do anything about any of it, shit seems pretty fucked. It's easy to get discouraged...  But then I look around this big, bad city that I call home: full to the brim with vacuous wastoids and dick-riders, trend-fuckers, and deplorable moral characters. But in the words of Murs: There are still decent people making music! One of those good, if not great, people is the homie Blake aka Analog Dive. All adorable island-conceived vibes, Analog Dive might not be from LA originally, but the city is better off for his positive sentiments and quick smile. His new EP, Has No Friends is...

Whoever the Fuck DAMEHT are, they're fucking KILLING me with this Girl Jeans track. At first I thought I was listening to a smooshwich of The 1975 and The Neighborhood, but without the "the", ALLS I HEARS IS THE FRESHIES. Seriously, if you were in the market for a track to pop pop jiggle to, I just found it for you bro. The guitar action on this track feels like a direct shoutout to Michael Jackson's Beat It but in a reverence I can only compare to the first time I heard Rockwell's "Somebody's Watching Me" when I was a kid. It isn't that there's any copycat shit happening, but holy Fuck does this go down as smooth as the aforementioned jammies. DAMEHT have somehow combined the ting ting bling of synthy electro pop with a gentle brooding sense of terror, and I'm not just turned on...

BRONCHO, bro. Their name is half bro, half nacho. And that I can dig because I want to dip my saltiness in dat cheese. I'm 98% convinced that BRONCHO is that band playing at the high school dance in every 80s movie. For real. I've scoured the interwebz for gifs to watch while I listen to the album, Just Enough Hip To Be Woman, and they all synch up perfectly to the John Hughes narrative I conjured up in my head. Initially, the songs make me want to carelessly dance in sunglasses and/or stupid hat while others stare at my awkwardness, but I know deep down they appreciate the confidence in said awkwardness. And then the shit becomes less dancey because it's most likely meant to be playing in the background while the lead dweeb grabs some punch, nervously hit on his high school...