Why Alison Gold’s ‘Chinese Food’ is the Most Brilliant Satire of the 21st Century-An Essay

In recent times, a video has emerged with an online presence that belies that of Psy’s ‘Gangnam Style’, Samwell’s ‘What What in the Butt’ and Rebecca Black’s “Friday’ combined. I am, of course, speaking about Alison Gold’s ‘Chinese Food’, as posted above. Please, if you are one of the 9 million and counting that has not seen this video, take the three minutes and twenty eight seconds to broaden your IQ. Don’t worry, I’ll wait.

Did you see that? Did you see that irreplaceable piece of satire? I mean, ‘A Modest Proposal’ can go fuck itself, ‘Chinese Food’ is exactly what one wants when engaging with the kind of biting Juvenalian satire that this planet has been missing for so long. What was the last piece of really good criticism wrapped in several layers of sarcasm, parody and irony you saw? An episode of South Park? I scoff at thee, for whilst Trey Parker and Matt Stone are doing Whip-Its and jerking each other off, Alison Gold is proudly on the Internet, telling it how it is, albeit in a scathing, admonishing tone not seen since Arnold Schwarzenegger in ‘Kindergarten Cop’.

But what is Alison Gold so bent up about in her day-to-day life that could cause her to get in such a fluster? Did she miss out on getting invited to Sarah Falkner’s Big 14th Bash? Did her parents forget to put $100 in her bank account for the day, so she had to have tuna instead of lobster for lunch? Did she come to school wearing the cutest denim skirt, only to see that bitch Tammy rocking the same outfit? Well yeah, Tammy’s a fucking whore, but no, Alison is taking aim at something much more mature and sinister: US and Chinese economic relations, and the threat of the Cold War Version 2.0, a situation, that from Alison’s point of view, is looking all the more grim for the United States.

It’s right there in the video, but it is covered under so many layers of subtlety that one would probably miss it the first time round. What with the instantly offensive racist nature of the clip, and the obtuse idiocy that parades in abundance, you’d be forgiven for thinking this is one of the worst songs of the century. But it isn’t, because no one would be that blatantly stupid, it is physically, logically, and religiously impossible. So, if it isn’t an abomination to the gift of life, it can only be a work of genius. And the evidence is all there.

Let’s start with the opening lines of the song. Random Asian gibberish spoken by a man fucking around with noodles. Not cooking them, just kind of poking at them. Ignorance at its finest, or a foreshadowing of an economic future that sees China prodding American capitalism with sick glee?

The clip moves onto Alison Gold. She’s your average American teen: blonde, fun-loving, and generally innocent. Guys, she just want to go clubbing! But then, Alison, our young, naive protagonist, sees a restaurant called Chinese Food. Now, this isn’t laziness on the producer’s part to think of a vaguely legitimate name for a token Chinese restaurant, but a conscious effort to show the shoddy and lazy workmanship of Chinese manufacturing. Gone is the soul and care of quality American products, replaced by a stock character that tells the consumer exactly what it wants but gives none of the satisfaction. Poor Alison, her weak mind is taken by such a superficial concept, and she is instantly pulled, almost supernaturally, to the restaurant, not even bothering to look both ways as she crosses the street.

From here, the viewer gets to examine the inner workings of the Chinese factory environment, all scaled back to the restaurant. The horrible conditions of a child behind the cash register, pounding away blatantly at a machine that she obviously has no idea how to use. Hell, the mercury poisoning is even getting to Alison, as she struggles to even pronounce ‘Chow m-m-m-mein’. The delusion has truly infected our heroine, through the process of antagonistic Communist structure. She has been integrated into a fearful role of supporting Chinese ideology simply by being there. ‘I LOVE CHINESE FOOD! YOU KNOW THAT IT’S TRUE!’ are over-the-top lyrics that no serious musician or performer would utter, let alone write with any serious intention, so they have to be a representation of the zealous Chinese consumption of traditional American ideals.

Now, onto the lightning critical serving that would make ‘Catch 22’ shit itself. Whilst our mindless Alison Gold is zonked out on deadly chemicals brought on by the dodgy craftmanship of Chinese manufacturers that skirt any sort of moral code, (a practice that in no way, shape or form would ever be practiced in the Great States) she happens across a friendly panda. Initially thought to be a schizophrenic episode, it turns out to be Ark Music Factory co-founder Patrice Wilson!

Now, the immediate reaction would be to convulse in revolted apprehension, but its all good guys! It’s a metaphor! For the Chinese corporate strangulation of American culture! Duh! Mr. Wilson dances and raps, the perfect gentlemen at a pre-teen all girl slumber party. However, as is the case of all the best satire, there’s the macabre presence of the panda suit covering most of Patrice’s body, swallowing him up as the girls watch in barely contained horror.

The final straw of disillusion comes in the grand finale of the song. Alison and her buddies (aka victims of a vicious economic situation that can afford to buy out all competitors through short cuts and impoverished children) dance around in Kimonos and sing their ditzy chorus, easily a representation of total cultural ignorance brought on from the swallowing of Alison’s American identity. But are you ready for the mind explosion ladies and gentlemen? Because in the final moments of ‘Chinese Food’ the panda leads Alison downstairs in her own house, and then abandons her! THE PANDA HAS LITERALLY FUCKED THIS POOR GIRL AND FUCKED OFF BACK TO THE MOTHERLAND WITH THE CAPITALIST SPOILS OF WAR! If that’s not symbolism for what the Chinese economic policy is doing to Wall Street, then Patrice Wilson is into some seriously fucked up shit.

But it don’t stop there. No, like all good satirists, Alison Gold provides multiple levels to her majestical critique, by gesticulating to future implications. Alison believes that if America is continued to be taken advantage of (or in her words, fucked by a panda) then we’ll end up like the wretched Patrice Wilson. Americans will become slaves to the Communist Government of China, children enslaved to the poor working conditions of China’s factories, every product churned out to be as accessible and mass-consumed as possible. Alison Gold has seen the future of the United States, and that future spells the death of the American Dream. And we’ll all end up in panda suits. Cos the Chinese government fucking loves pandas.

So, in conclusion, ‘Chinese Food’ is not a KKK member’s idea of masturbation material as initially considered, but a thought-provoking summarisation of Chinese-American economic policy, and the whoring of capitalism. Alison Gold is a child of immeasurable wisdom, a woman who will lead the charge to a better, economically independent United States of America.

God Bless You Alison Gold.

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Robin Thicke’s Thought Process During His VMA ‘Performance’-An Essay

The above video is a short (but the most important snippet) of a recent controversy that has courted the esteemed artists Robin Thicke and Miley Cyrus. For those who can’t be fucked/stomach to watch the musical performance equivalent of 2 Girls 1 Cup, Robin Thicke stares super creepily at Miley Cyrusfor a bit, then she twerks on him, then does a slut prance, and then the video ends.

Now, some of you might call me a Miley basher. ‘Ryan you ginger harbinger of hate, it’s their personalities, twerking is Miley’s thing!’. First of all, a little red squiggly thing comes up under the word ‘twerk’ when I type it in, so as far as I’m concerned, its as redundant as the Greedo-Han argument. Until fucktwizzle becomes a word, twerk will remain to be considered an abomination to the music industry.

Okay, enough of this verbal duelling on the legitimacy of the twerk. When I look at this video, and read the hate that pours from the Internet over it, I don’t see the point of arguing about Miley. No, I want to look at the real victim here. If you thought that wreath of disgrace would be hung on Miley’s young, impressionable fans who will probably go on to suck a million dicks because they’re idol just rubbed up on a random celebritys crotch on national television, and now sensless sexualisation is okay, well your wrong! The real tortured soul here is Robin. Fucking. Thicke.

That’s right, just look at the poor uncomfortable bastard. His handsome face of moulded perfection is turned into a slightly creased frown of inevitable PR scandal whilst his genitals are used as Miley’s ass towel. I thought I’d give the guy the benefit of a doubt, and objectively describe what I see when watching this video: a man of supreme talent watching his career turn into flames. (Note: I’m only going to commentate on the above footage). This is Robin Thicke’s internal monologue as described by a douche bag ginger from Sydney.

-0:03- ‘Does this outfit make me look like Beetlejuice?’

– 0:01-‘ Fuck! I definitely look like Beetlejuice’

0:01-‘Hey, hey, hey!’

0:02-‘Is Miley wearing my grandma”s undies?’

0:03-‘Don’t stare the beast in the eye…don’t do it Thickey! Stay strong!’

0:05-‘Get your fucking foam finger out of my face wench!’

0:08-‘Thank god, she’s stomping away like the T-Rex she is.

0:09-‘It’s Thicke time baby! Turn, and the crowd goes ment-‘

0:12-‘Fuck, she’s behind me, play it cool’

0:15-‘Hand in the pocket, keep your distance…like a tiger in the jungle, hunting his prey…

0:16-‘Just stare into the crowd, ignore her. Let the crowd bask in your sexy glow’

0:17-‘What the fuck is she doing…’

0:18-20-‘WHAT THE FUCK!!!!’

0:21-‘Do these Beetlejuice pants cover my erection?’

0:26-‘I can feel a stain, I can feel it…it’s so…moist down there…it’s so hard to walk comfortably now’

0:32-‘What the fuck is she doing, she’s like a bucking rhino’

0:36-‘Focus Robin…focus. Ah who gives a fuck, I’ve finally found someone just as slimy and disgusting as myself, I should propose.’

(After the show, when Robin Thick is staring at himself backstage in a mirror) ‘I can’t believe I just had mild sex with that thing on stage, in front of millions of people around the world…wait, yes I can believe that, I’m Robin Thicke, world biggest douche shit!’

Ladies and gentlemen, I hope my brief expose on the thoughts and motivations of the entertainer Robin Thicke and the recent travesty he has faced stays with your hearts and minds. Who could’ve foreseen this tragedy occuring? Actually I could, I mean it’s the VMA’s after all, it’s exactly what happens when you get thousands of screaming pre-pubers locked in a room with celebrities that lost touch with any sense of realism the second their shit hit their golden toilet bowel. Also, you’ve paired two members of my Top 10 acts that can fuck off together! What did you think was going to happen?! Something good? Ha! You naive bastard! Your almost as innocent as the hundreds of thousands of impressionable tweenie-boppers that have just had their souls crushed by this video.

Post-Script: I had to watch that about 30 times, stopping and starting it to get the nuanced emotional capacity of Robin Thicke just right so I could reflect it most accurately in the monologue. Feel my pain. Empathise. Please.

The Difference Between Indie & Interesting-An Essay

There is a facet of music that has annoyed me, and countless bands, for as long as popular music has existed: being pigeonholed. There is nothing worse than slaving over a piece of music, crafting a melody or a rhythm, re-imagining a sample, toiling on lyrics until you wake up in a pile of your own vomit from how amazing your poetry is (not speaking from personal experience), and proudly releasing your gift of musical beauty into the world…only to have it thrown back in your face as a categorised, labelled misconstruction, to be tossed up on a shelf with a bunch of bands that everyone will associate you with from now until when the Titans inevitably rule the Earth. Take the case of The Preset’s ‘My People’, a dance thumper about, I shit you not, boat people. However the political nature of the song was misinterpreted as a party anthem, and was shat out in all the clubs across the country. Or The Clash’s ‘Rock the Casbah’, a highly satirical song that viciously tore into the government, that has been reduced to being the song your parents awkwardly shuffle to in the living room. No, pigeonholing sucks balls. I’ll admit, that occasionally in reviews, I take a creative license and compare a band to something that might not spring to everyone’s mind when they here the song, such as when I recently compared X-Ray Charles to Beat Happening and The Modern Lovers. However, this is my website and my opinion….soooo, yeah fuck you  if you take personal offence to my comparisons between bands that I find have musical similarities for broader identification.

However, this is not simply about subtext or great bands past their heyday; this is about the highly negative effects of pigeonholing, namely throwing in bands of actual worth with the dreaded pseudonym of indie, or hipster depending on your cultural geography. It’s a brand that has a certain sting to it, one that recalls pasty kids in buttoned up floral shirts and way too tight pants, spouting how they ‘knew about this band before anyone else’, typing a post-romantic dramedy novella on a Macbook pro in a delicatessen on Broadway whilst sipping a flat-white cappuccino. Click here to visually comprehend if Lucifer was more of a douchebag. Although, for me personally, that doesn’t look like an astoundingly fun person, and they come off as rather cynical and two-dimensional, these indie scum do exist. They are the ones who scan Pitchfuck daily for bands they can worship before actually hearing anything, who single handedly keep Pabst Blue Ribbon in vogue, and made ridiculous clothing ‘cool’ (who the fuck likes fedoras?). But by far, their worst crime is the diluting of the indie genre.

Now before I continue, I would like to point out two things. Firstly, the inspiration for this essay was ‘How Did Indie Get So Safe’ on Fasterlouder by Edward Sharp-Paul; it’s a great, short essay (shorter than this one anyway) and it’s better than the majority of things you’ll read, besides Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Secondly, I’m about to insult a whole heap of indie bands that I find personally shitty. I understand that music is subjective, and this is not an argument about your personal music tastes. However, if you are one that enjoys the superfluously repulsive sounds of Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros, Two Door Cinema Club, or Last Dinosaurs, I suggest you stop reading. Or not, you might find your new favourite band amongst those I find incestuous. Isn’t critiquing wonderful?

Anyway, there is a major problem with Indie music: it is too broad and too bland. When someone screams ‘OMG THIS BAND IS SAH INDIE’, it’s hard to know what they actually mean. Are they talking about Animal Collective, with their rich, multi-textured palettes of soundscapes, or the statistically terrible The Apples in Stereo? Did they mean Midnight Juggernauts’ pandering new album or Fugazi’s furious 1988 debut EP? It’s hard to know anymore. Then, there are so many sub-categories and niches, all with the title of indie slammed onto the front like an awkward boner sticking out of an 8th Grader’s pants: indie-rock, indie-pop, indie-electronica, indie-punk, indie-folk,indie-hip hop, indie-chill, indie-kill, indie-shank, indie-wank…the list goes on, and only about half of those are made up. Personally, you can chuck Phoenix, Passion Pit and Peter, Bjorn and John anywhere you want in there, it won’t change the fact that they’re shit. Most of these bands, despite declaring themselves indie, pander to a mainstream demographic. They play the dress up game and Domino Record Contract card, but the statistics speak for themselves. Vampire Weekend debuted their third album at no. 1 on the US Billboard Charts. Mumford and Sons won The Grammy for Album of the Year for ‘Babel’. Boy & Bear picked up 5 ARIA awards for their debut album, and will probably destroy the charts again this year, when they release their second album. Please, please do not misinterpret this as me saying that because these artists are ‘mainstream’ that they are shit. I’m merely pointing out that they have incredibly derivative music that in no way challenges the listener like independent music should. 

This brings me to my actual point, and I’m kind of sorry that it took so long to reach this statement. There are a fuckload of good bands out there that are getting thrown in with that indie tag. Just because a band is independent does not make them indie anymore. No, the cohesiveness of that identification got thrown out a long time ago, as soon as Interpol and The Strokes started getting popular. Both these bands are pretty good in their own way, however once they started and the indie ‘genre’ got picked up, about a million different bands started mimicking a sound and aesthetic similar to theirs that was in no way original, but was regardlessly hailed as being the next big thing. How many times can you open an NME or Rolling Stone and find them hailing ‘The Next Big Indie Thing’? Sure, it’s lovely for the band, but it has ruined all traction for the term indie. Initially, when the ‘indie scene’ popped up in America and Europe in the 1980’s, there was a certain amount of respect that came with the title. As Michael Azzerad’s biography of the 80’s indie scene, ‘Our Band Could Be Your Life’ describes, it was fucking hard to be indie. Bands like Black Flag and Dinosaur Jr. had to fight tooth and nail to get any exposure. Now, when the word indie pops up, all I can imagine is some Grizzly Bear sound-alike that will inspire absolutely no regard from anyone but the NME. Not that it matters too much to the band anyway, because they’re probably slathered in cocaine and bitches. Some bands, like San Cisco or Grouplove even come like pre-pacakged indie goods, ready made for the ‘indie addict’. However, it does matter to the independent bands that get slapped with the title of indie and hauled into a case of anonymity. There are now so many bands nowadays that consciously pander to the indie Triple J masses, that when a genuine band that comes around that happens to be independent and good, they are promptly blasted with ‘indie cred’, frothed over for approximately a week by hipsters, and then dropped by their ‘diehard new fans’ and left abandoned and disenchanted by their old ones.

There are a whole crop of new Australian acts that are legitimately interesting that I am fearful will get manhandled by indie-ness. Aussie Bands like Beaches, Dick Diver, Bleeding Knees Club, Royal Headache and Bored Nothing are all in close proximity to being swept in viva la indie, and promptly tossed into oblivion. Likewise, there’s international bands such as DIIV, Beach Fossils, King Tuff, and Savages who could suffer the same fate. For others, such as the cases of Flume, CHVRCHES, Tame Impala and Jagwar Ma, it’s probably too late, and it’ll only be a couple years before a ‘throwback’ reunion tour. This is fucked. Totally fucked. Firstly, because all of the bands mentioned above are bright young talents. It’s too early for them to go. It’s before their time. Secondly, these bands are not indie, and could be easily defined by other genres, if at all. Finally, it’s not fair to compare them to a band like Jinja Safari or Ball Park Music, each leaning strongly on obvious influences or mediocrity. The bands at the beginning of the paragraph are all highly interesting, highly capable acts worthy of a different attention that eschews Arcade Fire and Death Cab for Cutie Fans. Save your Augie March for when you’re bored on the bus. If you want something of captivating interest, check out Holy Balm, an electronica act that breaks all the rules of electronica. Or Ausmuteants, a band that could simply not give less of a shit. Or even Kirin J Callinan, the previous guitarist for Mercy Arms, Jack Ladder and Lost Animal, who recently tried to make a guy have a live seizure on stage at Sugar Mountain Festival earlier this year, all for the sake of art. These bands are all independent, Australian, and most importantly, interesting. They are not a bunch of acts to be randomly lumped in on an ‘indie playlist’ with the likes of Swim Deep or Father John Misty.

It’s 4 am on a Friday, and I don’t even really know what I’m saying anymore. Perhaps when I review and edit this tomorrow, it will make more sense. Perhaps it won’t. What I’m trying to say is this: I’m not going out of my way to insult the music taste of all the hipsters out there, I’m sure Snakadaktal’s debut album will be awesome. What I want to prove, like the Fasterlouder article, is that indie music has gotten quite safe and uninteresting, and I think that it has to do with the wide variety of ‘indie’ music, and the sea of music that most won’t bother to uncover. Indie isn’t indie anymore, that’s the problem. And if you try to make something not indie into indie, it will most probably get totally buried. Instead of hash tagging #indie to every band you hear on Triple J, perhaps take a listen first, and then figure out if they actually sound like The Postal Service and Modest Mouse, rather than just being new. And instead of buying the new Foster the People, spend your money on the new POND and King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard albums. It’ll pay off in the long run.

Why the New Daft Punk Album Sucks-An Essay

So, if you’ve been on the internet within the past six months, and are vaguely into music, you’ll have figured out that Daft Punk, the French house artists with zany helmets just released a new album. It’s entitled ‘Random Access Memories’, and I think it sucks. Not just me though. I saw a photo on Facebook of an anonymous JB HI-FI employee that described the album thus: ‘It’s like being a kid on Christmas, and running downstairs to open up the Sega you’ve been waiting all year for, only to find out that your parents are instead taking you to the vet, because you have to put the dog down.’ That, my friends, is goddamn poetry, and more entertaining than any single track found on the new Daft Punk album. Now, I don’t claim to be a critical connoisseur of any sorts, especially not of the electronic genres. My forte rather heaves on the garage spectrum of things, as yo will know if you’ve even glanced at this blog with the shitty name before. However, I do know a few things: Crystal Castles makes consistently good albums, the 90’s were a good time for dance music and Australia has an abundance of talent in the area, from obvious choices The Avalanches and Flume, to underdogs Fishing and Seekae. Now, picking on Daft Punk seems like a risque move, as they are one of the most incredibly powerful figures in dance music of all time. ‘One More Time’? ‘Around the World‘? ‘Harder Better Faster Stronger’? These are not just dance music icons, but household names, all over the fricking world man! The last song was sampled in a fucking Kanye West track! That guy only samples the best of the best, like that Will Ferrell line from ‘Blades of Glory‘. However, despite pulling off one of the best launches, in Wee Waa, rural NSW, the hype has not only exceeded the actual album itself and left myself severely disappointed, but has hindered the Daft Punk legacy as a whole. Harsh, but true,as I prove that ‘Random Access Memories’ is no more than a bland, self-indulgent smothering of randomness than never peaks past ‘meh’.

Firstly, there is not a track on here worthy of note. Not fucking one. ‘NAY!’ cries every single electronica fan that hasn’t discovered The Chemical Brothers yet, ‘Nay, you ginger headed dwarfsicle! For there is ‘Get Lucky’!. Yes, and what a stellar track that is, brimming with the talent and authenticity that first attracted so many to French robot fever. That is sarcasm by the way. This is something I would half expect T-Pain to put out if he was in a creative and jazz friendly mood. This is literally a song about getting laid muffled over some jazzy, zig-zag rhythms. Not only does the auto-tune and entrance of Daft Punk bring down any of the soulful and hard-earned positive elements that Pharrell Williams brings to the track, it’s 6 minute length time definitely ensures that the most ‘likeable’ and ‘danceable’ track on the album overstays its welcome. Speaking of Pharrell, he is one of the many collaborators on this album that can’t save it from being a highly flamboyant un-ironic caricature of art. Nile Rogers, famous for his schtick with Chic, has his hand in a few tracks, including opener ‘Give Life Back to Music’ and ‘Get Lucky’, whilst the aforementioned Pharrell is seen in ‘Lose Yourself to Dance (with Nile Rogers)’. Animal Collective’s Panda Bear is evident on ‘Doin’ it Right’ and even The Strokes’ Julian Casablancas shows himself, providing vocals to album ‘highlight’ ‘Instant Crush’. This doesn’t even reach the halfway mark of the plethora of guests on ‘Random Access Memories’, however, it remains a meddling mess. A fault of too many cooks in the kitchen? I doubt it. Daft Punk’s weakness for deploying wildly overdone and tasteless orchestra arrangements is seen throughout the album, from the rash and wince-worthy opener ‘Give Life to Music’. Speaking of terrible, pompous openers, ‘Give Life to Music’  seems like a four and a half minute overdub of a Chemical Brothers track, something from the albums ‘Come With Us’ or ‘Surrender’. The auto-tuned vocals in the Daft Punk song giving the listenable appearance of a pufferfish gasping for air on the beach: it looks, smells and sounds disgusting, but you can’t help feel sorry for it.

Whilst on the warpath of declaring why the new album is devoid of listenable tracks, one can take a scour of ‘Instant Crush’ featuring Julian Casablancas, or as I like to call it: the track they left off ‘Comedown Machine’ because it sounded too similar to The Strokes 2011 album ‘Angles’. Yep, Daft Punk are almost unrecognisable in this foray of what could perhaps be the only track with what could be deemed a layer of substance. It does have a semblance of groove, but it still comes off half-hearted and plaintive, awkwardly juxtaposing the shit-shock of tracks like ‘Game of Love’ and ‘Lose Yourself to Dance’. Another of their diving into traditional singing backed by eschewed keys and a bass line that must have been lifted from a 1970’s blaxploitation film, is ‘Fragments of Time’ featuring Todd Edwards. Now, even though it has a mildly intriguing style, it isn’t anything that should incite the riot-like passion of Daft Punk’s hardest fans. It’s something you would jam to while wasting time on the train, not bust a move to on the dance floor like dance music should inspire

This is from an subjectively objective point of view: I would admit if I saw the new Daft Punk album as revolutionary as some do. It just seems that it’s been hyped beyond belief, to a point where nothing they did would have succeeded. However, it goes to a point where it’s like they are re-hashing old ideas done better by old bands. Monologues followed by down-to-earth jazz drumming and spritzy electro as seen on ‘Giorgio by Moroder’? DJ Shadow did it better on ‘Endtroducing…’. Cheesy lyrics belted out with earnestly, whilst the star of the show hums idly and seductively asI assume was the motive for ‘Get Lucky’? Our own Chet Faker kills anything Daft Punk brought to the table. Spacey, out-of-this-world bass drops with acoustic guitar plucked delicately, with ‘Motherboad’? I’ll take Radiohead thanks. Even the attempts at melodrama and over-the-top, end up somewhere Daft Punk nor the listener want to be, and it comes off as totally idiotic (see: ‘Give Life to Music).

It’s not just a case of their-old-stuff-is-better-than-their-new-stuff, but it’s just a disappointing album of flat, empty pieces of music that aren’t as shimmery or glamourous as the band hoped for. Hype can do so much, such as stir your robot-kilted fans into near-murder mania, in which they’ll stab each other to clasp their fingers around your spandex wearing, auto tuned vocal pipes. But it can’t save the album that was never meant to be anything more than filler. Unfortunately, ‘Random Access Memories’ is a robotic apocalypse filled with jarring, mostly-dumb and boring observations that have been done so many times before, it’s past the point of cliche, and into the realm of just plain sad.