Description

12 years after their self-title debut this is the lost second album from Coconuts (the NYC duo of Tim Evans and Jordan Redaelli). Coconuts, as I have known them, cracking bunk PAs in NYC hovels, is simply inertia; steam-propelled on the hot guts of rock s past. They mainline into a legacy of pop obfuscation, in which sheer sonics and the sensuality of the guitar-as-tractor-beam blinds any sort of lyrical message or rock narrative. The sound is dire and low and vaguely menacing, like the pulse of an opiated Ritchie Valens slow dancing with the Dead C or the saucer-eyed paens of Japanese mopers The Jacks. And though the Nuts are lauded for their no-mind electric antic, their craft reveals a collective instinct honed over countless late nights of bleary deep listenings. – Daniel Lopatin Oneohtrix Point Never

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