Aftermath: Yeasayer's Tribal Future Shock And Benevolent Manipulation At HOB
|Photos by Groovehouse|
Your brain balls bounce to the bang-bang as you skip through the flash fantastic and your goo-goo ears drip dreamlike while they try to find your face and your tongue stays tied in a twist fist spooning sinews just attacked by a snare snake made of sound leaving little time to ask, "Where the fuck am I?" Yeasayer - the Tootsie pop made of drug tests. Give it a lick.
They are a band independent of genre-izing, one that loosely resembles David Byrne dressed up in robot clothes dancing in the dark jungle of a city center, trying to read a supra-modern love story that takes place in a popcorn popper while the main character is wiggling his fingers to the beats of tomorrow.
But really, it's hard to place them squarely anywhere - people have long called Yeasayer Afro-pop, and people keep insisting that they're now acid-rock; either that or straight electro with tinges of gospel infusion. It's a dubious proposition to try and label them, though, because when you do, another song comes on and you forget what you were saying just now and c'mon let's move our feet to rhythm of the weird.