I believe music is at its most powerful when the sounds alter the listener into thinking the medium is tangible, one even beyond the analog. All music essentially propels this notion, but conscious (mostly psychedelic) artists perpetuate and advance it. Like, are we really paying attention to the music people are making? Is outsider the last bastion of underground that hasn’t gone completely snowflake? Climate Change shows Beat Detectives’ complete control of their outsider [##?##]-track mixing mentality, mingled with popular house mechanics and tossed around the timbre laboratory of sound.
Energy is completely compelled by spiritual maturation. “When you think of physical anatomy, it’s an incredibly well-defined science. Every single cell has some kind of effect on the whole.” Something beyond human occurs when something physically and/or visibly undefinable stirs gently within the body. It’s like hearing euphoria. It’s like getting one ear pierced. It’s like listening to the effect on Oakley Tapola’s mic as if hearing it for the first time every time. And when you try to figure out which year the samples originally come from, it’s like looking at old photography and guessing who’s still alive. Then it’s whooty Friday on a Tuesday; you’re wearing platform shoes that aren’t yours at the grocery listening to a double cassette on an eternal flip.
S/O to the moment stress leaves your body, though. Or: a paper fan and tucked-back hair and tattoos of faces with eyebrow piercings in full effect. Samples within reason of personal branding beyond what is medium’d as advertised art. That deer-in-the-headlights effect when you play Climate Control and hear something so turn’t out that it makes you unplug and make sure (1) nobody is looking, and (2) what you hear was Beat Detectives and not the environment around you. Or being wayyy underage at the club. Reebok, w/e. A ponytail and something quick between sleeves. “Is this a Beat Detectives song?” We’ve all been there: abandoned-grocery-store rave at the not-so-end of town with a spliff, a dude walking his dog becoming your best friend when he satiates your broken mentality with “We’ve all been there.”
Climate Change’s timbre is like a Hungry Man dinner for everyone, but nobody eats it, while PAN’s own self-absorption’s too busy buying the ticket than sticking around for another heap. But definitely soccer and then the rave. And one ear piercing. And starting and with every sentence with “and” the entire night. The discussion of matching belly-button piercings becomes a real topic, and the shift in rhythms, pace, and cadence become that summer haircut Landon reminds you about in a text, the one that lasts a summer, but lives in a lifetime of infamy. Skate World. Skate Castle. Skate Land. For all I know, the American flag could be totally new colors at this point.
We’re waiting for the seating to collapse. Smashing in the front window, but there’s always inconvenience, so what’s the point? A deal with Mexican Summer? Playing in some fucking church in fucking Brooklyn fucking okay, but positive, please? Self is the only audience, but if you’re down, there’s always insanity. Or maybe just something to sing along to rn. Something for the Climate Change. The summer vibe everyone strives to achieve but never swelters enough in tone, ambiance, atmosphere, noir beat, outsider flip-book, 10-inch rear window-wiper blade; a snare that’s not a snare but something like it, or just a cigarette. A Bret Easton Ellis novel not written by him or a fan of Hemmingway. Heady mf’rs that r like -_- when someone drops an emoticon rather than w/e else. Go masturbate? Go find a search engine. Type in your name. What comes up?
Beat Detectives have found what you’re looking for, and you won’t find it anywhere else. They behold this Climate Change in a mindset that releases tension like the deepest crevasses of unidentifiable psyche. It’s okay to always feel guarded. Here. Within you. You’re free.
More about: Beat Detectives
