Thundercat
Drunk

Do you remember TV On The Radio? Maybe you do, and in that case, I'm sorry for you. They were one of those quite amazing multiracial, intellectual New York bands that emerged during a time (the early 2000s) when indie rock seemed to have become, from then on and forever, a communal experience - spoiler: it didn't. I'm sorry for you, and you know why; if you don't, I'm not going to tell you. TV On The Radio were swept away by history with the same marvelous indifference with which Tedua and Izi swept the alleys of Genoa from the remains of De Andre. However, a few minutes ago, I listened again to "Wolf Like Me" by TV On The Radio and realized that, even though it's not currently present among the collective mnemonic archive volumes, it is probably the most beautiful song ever - in the hopefully obvious sense that the most beautiful song ever is not just one.

"Drunk" by Thundercat is a record that makes you vomit blood, in the sense that it’s worse than a urinary tract infection. It's probably the worst thing to have happened to music after Apicella's songs for Berlusconi, with the aggravation that it's a contemporary jazz record, meaning it's an eight-hand mental jerk-off practiced with feral zeal just to have two white journalists say, "we are black intellectuals and therefore we are good, thank you for your attention." Meh.

See, while no one gives a damn about TV On The Radio, their songs fill the air like nitrogen; you can still breathe them in the moment you open the nearest window to their blowing. They exist. Thundercat's songs exist only as a product of the stinking waste embedded in the brain of someone who can't understand that they don't really like this music. Thundercat lives now because you like to smash your head with musings that don't concern you, and belong to no one, but which will eventually make you forget that time you cried at the final scene of "Paranoid Park," with "Angeles" by Elliott Smith in the background.

Keep your proto-whatever organic jazz mush contained in this record, if you like. But don't you dare mix it with the blood that suffuses and animates real songs, and say that this golf-club crap is superior. Damn, how I hate this, thank goodness tonight will howl forever.