softwaregratis999: new tips, services & Applets

Learn our Evernote tips and tricks, try out new services like Songkick and VoIP Calls, see our favorite Applets for photography, and much more. Unsubscribe from news, tips, and features or sign in to manage your email preferences. IFTTT · 9​2​3 Market S​tre​et · Sa​n Franc​isco, Calif​ornia · 941​03

Pitchfork's Best New Album -- Tyler, the Creator: Flower Boy

Tyler, the Creator: Flower Boy On Tyler's sincere and most accomplished album, he gets to the essence of what he's been chiseling at: the angst of a missed connection, the pain of unrequited love, and navigating youthful ennui. July 21, 2017 at 12:00PM via Best New Albums - Pitchfork http://ift.tt/2ugt3UO Email me Pitchfork's Best New Albums, bro

softwaregratis999: see what's new!

Learn our Evernote tips and tricks, try out new services like Songkick and VoIP Calls, see our favorite Applets for photography, and much more. Unsubscribe from news, tips, and features or sign in to manage your email preferences. IFTTT · 9​2​3 Market S​tre​et · Sa​n Franc​isco, Calif​ornia · 941​03

Pitchfork's Best New Album -- Big Thief: Capacity

Big Thief: Capacity The Brooklyn quartet Big Thief did not name their debut Masterpiece because they felt it was flawless. Rather, Masterpiece painted the complex experience of being young and uncertain with a rare sense of humility: the highway becomes home, a romance between two reckless moonshiners ends for the fear of pain, a slap in the face is real love. But when a band enters the world with such a bold declaration of accomplishment, what do they title the work that surpasses their opus? Big Thief call it Capacity. Though Big Thief—singer-guitarist Adrianne Lenker, guitarist Buck Meek, drummer James Krivchenia, and bassist Max Oleartchik—began recording Capacity just seven months after they finished work on Masterpiece, the unflinching accounts of death, domestic abuse, and primal romances that filled their debut have settled on their sophomore record. Stories pour out of Lenker's mouth like an endless ribbon, bold and without friction. While the process of excavating such intense memories was challenging and painful, Capacity finds Big Thief firmly nestled in the catharsis. As Lenker sings, "For in the dark there is release."   This idea that we contain opposing yet complementary forces is central to Capacity: We are mother and daughter, rearing and growing at once. Look to the record's cover, which shows Lenker's uncle holding her as an infant, dark hair slick on her soft skull. The adult Lenker so closely resembles her relative that at first glance she appears to be cradling a baby version of herself. "There is a child inside you who is trying/To raise the child in me," she sings on "Mythological Beauty," the record's emotional centerpiece. The track adapts a horrific and bloody accident that befell her as a child as a means of empathizing with her young mother's vast responsibility. "You held me in the backseat with a dishrag/Soaking up blood with your eye/I was just 5 and you were 27 praying don't let my baby die," she screams, her voice and the guitars both tightening to their breaking points. On the sweeping title track which thumps with crashing drums and wiry guitars, Big Thief intertwine the ideas of consonance, captivity, and capacity. "I am a beautiful bird/Fluttered and floating/Swollen and hollowed/For heaven," Lenker declares in a manner that is both life-affirming and crushing. Earlier on the finger-picked acoustic opener "Pretty Things," the narrator whispers to a lover, "There's a woman inside of me/There's one inside of you too," an idea that is meant to suggest that the maternal urge inside each of us grants our survival.  There are times on Capacity where the intimacy becomes almost unbearable. When these moments occur, the band's melodies serve as buoys to cling to for comfort. "Watering" and "Coma" tell of a traumatic assault and the character's eventual awakening from the ensuing haze. There's so much darkness contained in the former's illustration of a poisonous, carnal relation, but Krivchenia's drumbeat is there to offer the reminder of a heartbeat and sharp guitars jolt the subject out of dissociation. Though Lenker, Meek, and Oleartchik each attended a lauded Berklee College of Music program at some point in their life, Big Thief's blend of intricate folk rock pulls more from ecstatic expression than academic practice. They are each technical musicians, but their songs are foregrounded with melody and emotion rather than fussy prowess. The first half of "Coma" is as isolated as the title suggests, just Lenker's murmur and a guitar. As soon as the narrator builds the strength to wade into her new, changed world, the band arrives as her docent.  Of note is Big Thief's use of names. Matthew, Evelyn and Haley become a community of people through which Lenker invites us into the past and present of her life. Most movingly, there's "Mary" dedicated to Lenker's best friend, a love song straight out of the detailed schools of Joni Mitchell and Joanna Newsom. Over a gentle piano, Lenker pays tribute with a vivid catalogue of images. It's so easy to find the wrong words for life, we do it every day, but here, Lenker's verbal waterfall is a perfect abstraction: Monastery monochrome boom balloon machine and oh Diamond rings and gutter bones marching up the mountain with our Aching planning high and smiling cheap drink dark and violent full of butterflies the violent Tenderness the sweet asylum the clay you find is fortified we felt unfocused fade the line The ease with which Lenker's honeysuckle voice tumbles out, I could keep typing the lyrics forever. Capacity is a remarkable record, one that proves that Big Thief are not a one trick pony, they are the full circus. It is a complete journey, from the early collective cacophony of "Shark Smile" to the hypnotizing conclusion of "Black Diamonds." There are bands with stories to share, wounds to rub salt into, loves to relive, but few address every moment with such adroit care as Big Thief. You can hear it as they revel in the darkest moments, rejoices in the later lightness, and fumble around for a sense of closure. Capacity is human, which seems to be all Big Thief desire. June 09, 2017 at 12:00PM via Best New Albums - Pitchfork http://ift.tt/2rHGRYR Email me Pitchfork's Best New Albums, bro

👇 Tips, trends, & your new favorite Applets 🙌

Google Assistant for iPhones, BrainyQuote, IoT Podcast, trending Applets for May, and more — check out the best of what's new and cool on IFTTT! To disable these emails, sign in to your settings or unsubscribe. IFTTT HQ · 9​2​3 Market S​tre​et · Sa​n Franc​isco, Calif​ornia · 941​03

Pitchfork's Best New Album -- (Sandy) Alex G: Rocket

(Sandy) Alex G: Rocket In a sense, singer/songwriter Alex Giannascoli is the modern ideal for an indie rock throwback. The frequent comparisons with Elliott Smith or Sparklehorse are legitimate, but mostly regarding his recording process: Every production decision—whether double-tracking vocals or close-mic'ing the guitars—creates the assumption of intimacy, recalling an earlier time when instrumental or monetary limitations necessitated ingenuity. But he records on a laptop rather than a 4-track, and he was an early example of a songwriter leveraging a strong Bandcamp presence into a deal with a high-profile imprint, in his case, Domino. Beach Music, his first album for his new label, was a gorgeous and puzzling release that gained esteem throughout 2015, but it seemed determined to offer continuity with his scruffy early work rather than to serve as any kind of break out. Rocket, a record that first feels oddly soldered together, is in a sense the album that Beach Music wanted to be, the most comprehensive and accessible document of a diffuse catalog. Even the newfound stylistic hooks here are slippery things. Singles "Proud" and "Bobby" are rootsy in an unfamiliar way—there's twang, fiddle, yearning harmonies, a duet with fellow Philadelphian singer/songwriter Emily Yacina, and the broad influence of Lucinda Williams. Otherwise, Rocket's Americana is cobbled together from the junkyards scoured by experimentalists like Califone; "Poison Root" and "Alina" in particular imagine if "The Orchids" spawned an entire subgenre of backwoods psychedelia. There's some eyebrow-raising Auto-Tune on the queasy piano ballad "Sportstar" and "Brick" is a welcome reminder of the evocative, hard-edged screams of his live show, though the overall experience is a little like hearing a Show Me the Body gig from outside the venue. Though the sonic diversions on Rocket are the most ephemeral draws, they provide immediate access points and a means of providing distance from a simple archetype. Both Alex G's falsetto and the cocktail jazz arrangement of "County" obscure how its title references a gnarly prison scene. The narrator, "locked up for nothing/stealing or something" sits next to bloody wall, courtesy of a seemingly quiet kid who swallowed two bags of heroin and a razor blade. "Hey, why don't you write that into a song/Your fans will dig that," an officer snarks after Alex sings, "See, I got stories." It's unclear whether "see" is meant as an interjection or a response to the prevailing image of him as someone who goes out of his way to deflect any sort of attention or self-disclosure. How would your opinion of Alex G change if "County" was about him? Entire album narratives have been framed on lesser stories. It's unclear how much of Rocket is autobiographical—the closer one leans into these songs, the more they confound the first assumption. "Proud" and "Sportstar" can be instantaneously read as rock 'n' jock archetypes if that's what you want to use them for. When "I wanna be a star like you/Wanna make something that's true" becomes, "I wanna be a fake like you" on "Proud," it's easy enough to take Alex G literally considering his touchy relationship with the press. But it's just as likely that he's being sarcastic, maybe about himself, maybe about the truthful nature of alt-country. That might initially seem the case when he sings, "Let me play on your team/I'm clean" on "Sportstar," but every seemingly plainspoken lyric thereafter takes on a tone of anger, then self-hatred and emotions that are much more unsettling ("In the back of my car/Could you hit me too hard?/You're scarred") for their inability to be defined or described. Rocket isn't unknowable or obtuse, just indirect—more willing to get under the skin or tug on an ear than hit directly on the nose. This kind of purposeful restraint can feel damn near novel in the current day, as efforts to illuminate the artistic process becomes its own kind of oppression—so many of Alex G's peers feel the need to issue statements outlining the meaning behind any given song and album releases feel like the endpoint of an exhausting cycle of content creation rather than a start of a meaningful relationship. "The reason you enjoy music is because of its unlimited potential, the inability to really understand it," he offered in a recent interview, and that's projection to a certain degree. Sometimes, there really is no substitute for the revelations that come when an artist unlocks the mysteries of their work. But it's certainly the reason why Rocket feels like one of the year's most endlessly generous records, as Alex G's restraint is our gift that keeps on giving. May 19, 2017 at 12:00PM via Best New Albums - Pitchfork http://ift.tt/2qzh9W6 Email me Pitchfork's Best New Albums, bro

Pitchfork's Best New Album -- Jlin: Black Origami

Jlin: Black Origami Jlin's relationship with genre has always been complicated. For as long as she has been recording, the Gary, Ind. producer has been associated with footwork, the hyperactive post-house music spawned alongside the equally chaotic competitive dance style popular in neighboring Chicago. Superficially, the affiliation makes sense. She counts both footwork godfather RP Boo and its most revered son, the late DJ Rashad, among her mentors and made her earliest appearance on the second installment of Planet Mu's genre-survey Bangs & Works. But she built these ties at a distance; not from weekend road trips into Chicago but from hand-me-down juke tapes and, later, through Myspace messages and extended phone conversations with her influences. This is, of course, a uniquely 21st-century phenomenon: an artist situating themselves at the center of a culture, particularly such a socially oriented one, from the comfort of their bedroom. And this outsider/insider contradiction has long been a source of power for Jlin, giving her the means to master the tools of this potent style while still operating without any obligation to its conventions. On Dark Energy, her 2015 debut, this meant stripping footwork's stuttered-triplet-everything model down to its skeleton and draping it in frigid industrial textures; her day job at a steel mill provided critics with a too-perfect shorthand for the project's brutalist impulses. The follow-up, Black Origami, is more difficult to define, moving further away from footwork's literal sonic qualities while reclaiming and amplifying the genre's already imposing physicality. Black Origami is a gorgeous and overwhelming piece of musical architecture, an epic treatise on where rhythm comes from and where it can go. The lone ping-pong synth squiggle that opens the album on its title track is misdirection because the 40-some minutes that follow are nearly absent of melody. It's all perpetually escalating polyrhythmic tension, a time-stopping barrage of drum rolls and disembodied angelic voices. The only moments of calm come in the milliseconds of silence between songs. Like her juke and footwork predecessors, Jlin tends to favor the stock digital sounds of '90s drum machines to the warmer analog kits of the '80s or the mutated grandchildren thereof, which now dominate contemporary urban/electronic music. This only adds to the disorienting effect of the record's intensity, as there is nothing quite like being pummeled by hyper-vivid clavs and shakers grown in the heart of the uncanny valley. This creates a certain grace to this chaos. It's not dance music per se, at least not in the way footwork originally was—it's also not not dance music the way the gulps of 808 move against the many polyrhythms of "Nyakinyua Rise." The martial undercurrent to the record builds from cross-firing drum lines and drill whistles, battle cries and elephant roars. It's like Jlin is less interested in violence than she is the precise motion and strategy of warfare. (This, too, might be read as a nod back to the battle elements of footwork.) As listeners of electronic music have become so closely attuned to its many shifting micro-genres, their natural inclination may be to decode and map out these many moving parts. Fans of contemporary club music might try to situate it in the context of not just footwork but the similarly charged movements currently happening in Lisbon or Durban. Those more closely attuned to avant-garde corners of the electronic music world could invoke the data-dense sputtered beat structures of Autechre or Ikue Mori's experiments in teasing humanity out of canned drum machines. An ear more rooted in traditional music might catch the strands of drum corps and school bands (c.f. the marching snares "Hatshepsut"), tribal seances, and gamelan ensembles. The wonderful thing about Black Origami is that it's all of these things and none of them at once. It's a rhythm-spanning collection of contradictions and colliding worlds—the intensity of social music refracted through an introverted mind, the physical converted into digital and back again, the past told through future music and vice versa—all making the case that rhythm is too infinite, too forceful to be reduced to mere utilitarian functions. It denies listeners the question of, "What do I do with this music?" and forces them to react directly to what it does to them. It's a pure exercise in sound-as-power, music that has no specific agenda beyond simply making itself felt. May 18, 2017 at 12:00PM via Best New Albums - Pitchfork http://ift.tt/2rhzGqV Email me Pitchfork's Best New Albums, bro