Their aesthetic austerity serves as an indictment for the state of cultural oversupply, the rampant and often grotesque artistic deflation that has occurred through the freely absentminded use of software platforms by the masses… but to rip apart the symbology that’s been flying around electronic music this year in an effort to “purify” the mental poisoning that can occur through culture-consumption.
– SCVSCV
As in, this kinda sounds like something, sure. But as much as this kinda sounds like something, it’s more not anything, specifically.
– Adam Devlin
…quotes from various 2015 TMT reviews; comparable interests describing:
Ever since Landon sent me Boogie Chillen / The Hills of Cypress, including all .pdf companion pieces, a BUNCH of shit has happened, including the Not Not Fun LP release of Climate Change. The fucking POPE had a political dinner with 50 Cent in South Jamaica, Queens in a Project-40 suite, farted, and got a bed of roses. A bowl of the Pope’$ $hit $ell$ on eBay for thou$and$, ble$$ed by the G-Unit $quad, and you just gotta be chill. It’s unfortunate plebeians like us can’t even sell digital “products,” considering this is consumerism these days (sorta like how URL friends aren’t IRL friends, feel me?). Anyway, the Pope proceeded to a trap house off the Jackie Robinson Parkway, close to The Hills of Cypress, where a cop pulled behind “His holiness,” and the SUV to his 12 o’clock bummer tossed out two revolver handguns from the passenger window, speeding off down Jackie, this happening just moments after the Pope’s driver asked for directions at a gas station to the [Parkway], and they replied, “The person or…?” Something’s in the basement, and it’s being projected on the big screen cellphone tube-visual but sorta burnt out in a way where antiquated meets vinyl sales. It’s like the moment a seeder’s internet cuts out while the Pope is downloading the only Arnold Schwarzenegger cum shot ever filmed, so instead of HD, those four minutes of the ex-CA governor jerking it looks like Doom II guest-starring in the Pam Lee Anderson home video release from that RV in Borat. All-in-all, there’s a guilt-free-ness to Beat Detective’s Boogie Chillen / The Hills of Cypress that’s at once in vogue and hip-pop and hypnagogic and… as if Hype Williams were still [romantic; Hennessy] and making music. Turn’t Boogie Chillen / The Hills of Cypress as loud as you can, because there is an endless demographic here in a generally acceptable way, garnering a super (un)obtrusive medium. Then you’re dancing with your dog like it’s a human but knowing it’s just your dog, so respecting its anatomy while maintaining balance with this two-legged stance, etc. Yet you feel it’s necessary for social connection, so your entire night feels like that slow take on Grey’s Anatomy when everyone is just dancing like:
Dropping off the Fusion at Bill’s Auto around 7 AM, there’s a mist of hope in the air, as they actually fix what’s wrong with it this time; the car’s been rumbling quite a bit and fluttering out various noises. Upon entering the vehicle, after having picked it up and paid, “Part 3” of Boogie Chillen / The Hills of Cypress is BLARING in the whip, a sound so deafening that it needed to be turned down immediately. Nobody from inside the garage seemed to be affected by this alarming volume of sound, so fuck shit: breaking into Bill’s Auto later that night to hack their video surveillance, just to make sure they did their jorb. Video-taped around 2:30 PM (EST) are sequences of dances from Magic Mike XXL shaved down to about 45 minutes (roughly the lengths of “Part 2” and half of “Part 3” in Boogie Chillen / The Hills of Cypress), spraying water and cleaner-suds everywhere, sparks from car parts being grinded on workbenches, the Fusion getting hump-rev’d. Completely over-the-top maximalist performances all done while the garage doors were closed, with only a strobe light going off. (“THX!” to Big-Daddy Bill for spending the extra buck for a night-vision camera.) Bodies greased up and tools being used as phallacies. A shower scene in the middle of the garage, under the drain, using a single hose for a grouping of six not-so-ripped-but-dripping-sweat: men. The Fusion getting half-worshed in the process; they fuck up and use the ultra-expensive oil, which isn’t really them fucking up as much as them only changing the left break pads (and not also the right), so it’ll have to be taken back in a week. They said the transmission is shot and that it should be taken to an expert, but this afterthought is immediately forgotten, because they blasted Beat Detectives during a private group striptease, totally forgiving Bill’s Auto for falling prey to the siren and jilted qualities of Boogie Chillen / The Hills of Cypress.
“…always a shame when child stars go buck after gripping Happy Meal toys and a bootleg Ghostbusters VHS from Chinatown, but nobody ever gonna hold down their own child, so the law needs to step in sometimes. NYC is full of witnesses, which helps the general population douse our department in ACAB slander, while this child is doped on heroin or pills or *jangles pocket of child-actor as child actor mumbles* …looks like both; oh, disgusting; Jimmy, check this neon drool leaking from her nose and mouth, man; it’s all that non-FDA-approved candy shipped in by Russians who think nuclear waste is a sweet tooth satiate — *struggling and frantically shifting/rubbing clothes and shoes hit the pavement* she’s bottoming out; Jimmy hold her — HOLD HER: get the adrenaline needle! People, please stand back, this is a matter that the child’s parents would probably like to keep private. Find your way around the corner and away from the *loud thud and a screeching so loud it competes with the ambulance a street away being blocked by huddling foot traffic and bystanders*
Ken checks into his hotel at 6 PM. He gets dinner at Taco Bell around 6:30 PM after unpacking. Upon arriving back at the hotel (which wasn’t actually part of the hotel block), fire is casually tossed into the hallway out of room 23. Alarms ring out like Whitney in The Bodyguard, and behind the [closed door] hotel room next to Ken — down the hall from the fire — yelling or sex is heard, with arguing behind another, so he goes to the ice machine by the elevator. Luckily, only water pours out, and with this bucket of water, he runs like Eddie Murphy from Beverly Hills Cop II down the hall to the increasingly wicking fire surrounding the hallway like a Lucifer gazebo: he douses the two walls, but the ceiling is still encased in flames. He takes his Baja Blast XL Taco Bell exclusive drink and tosses it (no ice) at the ceiling, extinguishing all the elemental danger about him, Ken now laughing like a devil as random doors open in the hallway “SHUSHHING” him, being rained on by Baja Blast. He makes his way to the room he mistakenly reserved, only to find fake hair has been melted to the room’s chair. He yells at dog-level siren volumes, making more of a screaming face than any actual human-audible noise. The free breakfast is full of glaring faces, as he mistakes other occupants’ paid-for meals as a buffet-bar: he thinks they’re just pissed from him being a helpful nuance. Later on down by the UDF, Ken finds himself gazing at a woman buying two scoops of mint chocolate chip on a waffle cone, whose hair matches the same lavender/teal/orange color combination melted to his room’s chair. Half of the back of her plastic strands are crinkled up under her spine-to-head curve.
Tied with HR Giggers Studiolo, Boogie Chillen / The Hills of Cypress is the ultimate cassette(s) release that has dropped this ‘music year,’ as it resides on two completely bootleg dubbed (but probably professional) tapes. Oh, and shout out to Tomentosa Records for distro’ing gold throughout the years, as I’ve an entire shelf that’s dedicated to the long-lasting bits of Josh’s Ashland trove.
Let’s take a reality check, though: Boogie Chillen / The Hills of Cypress is not a mixtape, but a full-on assault on how listeners perceive music. Beat Detectives have taken DJ Spinn’s dropped-in live-sampling brevity, underground club aesthetics, sonic confusion via sound transitions, vocals in the background as the foreground (only to be screwed-the-fuck-out again later in Boogie Chillen / The Hills of Cypress), fart grime, Chatterbox moments in “Part 2,” dancing deterioration that turn’ts spastic movements into synesthesia so listeners look like maniacs in the bank/bus/office. Shame upon those who use the words plunderphonics and hypnagogia; it’s got yin-yang balancing of production and live mirage melodies against blown immersion, Winnie the Pooh honey-laughs, Crayola editing drawn and taped to a fridge that’s got a wonky fan buzzing, [b]olony dub, long distance cut/paste, intentional misadventures in pop art melted into (functional) background music 2.0, a glitched mentality, recycling on a digital level that makes ADHD something to admire. You don’t need to pay attention to Boogie Chillen / The Hills of Cypress in its entirety. In fact, it’s more rewarding when you let Beat Detectives take you on a diaspora of musical demographics, dipping in and out when you feel, because you’ll always hear something new. It’s a picture of a picture. It’s the fade-away after a three-pointer. Levity is contentment within the glimmering eyes of Boogie Chillen / The Hills of Cypress’s audio.
There are plenty of people out there trying to “MAKE POINTS” in and about music (so IMO “The Pitch” is turning the modern music scene into a reality television or social media project), which is chill because Tiny Mix Tapes also has plenty of writers on this type of game. But, like, queue the Muppet Dance? There’s a huge difference between talking about music and talking about the music world at large, which seems to cross a fine line that’s thickening in a blur of ego. Writing creatively about music (to me) feels most respectful in terms of keeping that profound, non-visual element of sound intact without direct resolution to specific meaning(s), which can potentially ruin the self-inventive processes of each release to readers who listen to and apply ONE review writer’s idea. This is especially so when a release is lyric-less, though Boogie Chillen / The Hills of Cypress is lyric-riddled in a puzzling way: their direction seems to almost derail via production and vocal transitions (sorta like how vocals are employed in a Giant Claw, DJ Rashad, or Lil B release). It’s like a G-rated movie (presenting pop, rap, house, NPR, alternative rock [all generalized radio listening]) using NC-17 “getting away with anything” production, but only to crack minds in an openly free mental world. Bleeding hearts are for the coworkers who complain about everything, use conversation to draw more attention toward themselves, and make friends only to pretend rudeness (although, it’s still straight-up rude). Within every play/repeat of Boogie Chillen / The Hills of Cypress, listeners always take away a new experience — and potential memory loss.
BONUS E-SIDE
Submitted to this reviewer by one-third of Beat Detectives, CHOPIN SCREWED Mixtape is the lost and found E-side to Boogie Chillen / The Hills of Cypress. Personally, my view on mixtapes and side-releases, underdog SoundCloud tracks just barely 15 minutes in length and Boiler Room AOTY-worthy performances, are designed to avoid the pressure of putting something demographed and catered to a specific audience, therefore never escapading in all sorts of PR-level stress. It also (typically) comes at listeners in a discovery-zone-esque way, making them feel a larger sense of intrigue in comparison to reading marketing/advertising nonsense telling them what to like/enjoy. CHOPIN SCREWED Mixtape is not only the most transgressive PR move Beat Detectives could’ve made with Boogie Chillen / The Hills of Cypress, but it’s pretty much the Turbo HD Remix Super Remastering of its previous sides, A through D.
To end on the same note as everything Beat Detective does, here’s a collage of top-notch fast-food toys that got stuck in your parents’ toilet or clogged in your arteries as a child:
More about: Beat Detectives
