Something a little more spicy than an erect middle finger, the sight of a florid wanger indelibly emblazoned with the album title – censured above for obvious reasons – had this notice to accompany it: 'U.S law states you must be 18 years of age to view graphic sexual material. We consider this art.' Not wanting to delve into the unending debate of what is, and what categorically isn't art (in this case I'd err on the side of the latter opinion) it's a darn vitriolic statement of intent, and perhaps their most provocative yet. That track one go by the designation Come up and get me, and that another Facebook post – this time untitled – depicts a typically topless Burnett stood atop balcony cornicing, looming over an 80-foot drop, the snake up the drainpipes but both skinny middle fingers here pointing skywards as though antennas to Heaven, suggests the Californians ain't interested no more in advances nor ultimata.
Its 'release' (and I use the term with the looseness of Brian Wilson's washed out denims) may be perceived as one to strike fear into the internet antivirus neurotics amongst us – could the download be the most efficacious virus since the wheels of the Zeus Trojan were set in motion, or purely a darn potent viral release? – although the the zip unzips as any avid impatient could've only dreamt but 24 hours previously. It may even have smartened some up to expeditious file hosting services FilePup, BayFiles, and so on.
So far, so seditious then, but what of the music? Well, understandably, it's a fairly seamless continuation of The Money Store, as was always intended. The aforementioned Come up and get me has Burnett rattling off artillery-like lyricisms of being holed up "in an eight high abandoned building/ No daylight/ One midnight/ Lamp lit twenty-four seven" to their usual barrage of faintly tuneless electroclash-slash-trance blare; No Love recalls Brian Degraw further easing off actuality in said edifice of "murdered windows"; Black Dice a louche bleep significantly more evocative of FlyLo's Until The Quiet Comes than it may be deemed of Mr. Impossible. World of Dogs plays off trippy drum patterns and a refrain of "It's all suicide" repeated with such insistence it starts to lose all meaning just as you may hope life, and its entailed label conflicts may sometimes seem. The initially a cappella Hunger games sounds like the best, most truculent physical education session you never got; the sort, however, to have Burnett flung from ferrous school gates instantaneously as he begins to indulge himself with nether region reference lyrical. Maybe he'll have to acclimatise to redundancy anyway, after this particular stunt...
Although it appears to be working – it's now 09:50 and they've succeeded in smashing in their own site. Can't sense they care exactly – Fuck That. The record rolls on, and the scintillating doom hop of Bass rattles stars out the sky reflects their collective apathy demonstrated towards everything that ought matter this morning. Closer Artificial death in the west, meanwhile, is debatably the most coherent recording contained within either effort thus far, and strongly recalls WIXIW yet what with NØ LØV∑ D∑∑P W∏B now spread wide across the web there's little need to heed much of this swiftly formulated opinion. Take a listen for yourself, provided you didn't do so already. But you did, right..? Dots across the board for insurrection, but where the heck does this leave Death Grips?
Josh Holliday.
