The good news: I’m getting more submissions for this column every week. Let me add quickly: While I’ve got pretty broad tastes, not everything is gonna land with me. If I can’t fit your song in here, don’t take it personal. I really do appreciate you reaching out.
But I can’t help but notice that my local playlist is really light on hip-hop. Get me those MN rap tracks! I’ve been doing some hunting on my own, but I really feel like I’m missing out on some good stuff.
Local Picks
The Cameras, “Real Fine”
Last week, the Cameras released an EP, All Your Friends, and played a show at the Turf Club. Well, better late than never, right? Poppy with an unpredictably shifting melody, centered on the lyric “She and all your friends get along real fine” in an ominous way, this is my fave of the EP’s three songs,
These scrappy kids' new album Eat peaks for me on this quick grungy hit of big, tunefully unkept guitar—which of course drops out to a quiet strum when appropriate. I don’t know exactly what they're ranting about, but they seem to know, and that’s what matters.
Gully Boys, “Bad Day”
The local faves rage and roar at their most old-school Paramore-ish and translate themselves into Sims for a cool video (at the link). Just a big ol’ rock song worth shouting along to.
Little Fevers, “Waiting Place”
Lucy Michelle ponders her future in that big, friendly voice of hers as Paul Paleo guitar adds color, texture, and hooks, and the rhythm section of Eamonn McLain and Geoff Freeman keep the whole shebang moving along.
Wouldn’t you just hate it if the folks with the best new local band name of 2024 actually sucked? Fortunately, suck they do not. On their only recording to date they scream “Pull the knife out of my back and stab me in the fucking chest!” at some unidentified bad person who clearly deserves to be screamed about. Yeah! And they play their second show ever this week, headlining Cloudland.
Non-Local Picks
The hell is TDE doing? In 2022 the powerhouse label that launched Kendrick and SZA signed this unclassifiable rapper, an obvious star in the making, and followed up her hit "What It Is (Block Boy)" with some middling tracks instead of releasing a full album. Here Doechii teams up with a City Girl for her best jam in a while. But still… A-L-B-U-M.
I wasn’t much of a PTL fan back in the day, but David Bazan’s solo work opened me up and the reformed Pedro, which has become a vehicle for revisiting his past. “At first I worked a vacuum cleaner salesman job,” Bazan sings here, voice and guitars sharing a complementary dryness; then a lo-fi recording inspires him to move to Seattle and form a band. Things really were like that back then, you know.
Omar Souleyman, “Rahat al Chant Ymme”
I love what a pro this Syrian wedding singer is: When I caught him at the Cedar a few years back, he put on a great show with absolute minimal effort and with a complete deadpan demeanor. Here, as elsewhere on his new album, Erbil, keyboardist Hasan Jamo Alo adds some sweet touches, augmenting a tradition that’s lasted because it’s willing to adapt to whatever new styles the people pay to hear.
St. Vincent feat. Dave Grohl, “Flea”
Annie Clark casts herself as a blood-sucking pest for a metaphorical heft that John Donne would condone, threatening “Once I’m in you can’t get rid of me” over spare verses, before the chorus blasts into full effect with big beats from the credited celeb drummer.
Tom Zé, "Jesus Floresta Amazônica"
I have never regretted a single note I’ve listened to by this playful Brazilian genius, whose conceptual trickster smarts remain undimmed at 87. I can’t tell you what he’s on about here (damn my non-existent Portuguese) but I’m tickled as ever by the sound, and trust that the inevitable full-length will provide context.
Worst Song of the Week
Say Anything, “I Vibrator”
Indeed, no man has ever written a song from the perspective of his wife’s gloating vibrator. And Max Bemis is here to show us why. I don’t know that the lyrics here ever get worse than the opening lines—“You botched her nut a jillion times/Now she's gonna get herself off/It may require an army of balls”—but they sure as hell don’t get any better. Even when Bemis’s actual wife Sherri DuPree (wow, Eisley is still around?) chimes in, this song is drenched in the kind of male self-loathing you’re best to stay clear of because it typically inflicts collateral damage. On second thought, Max, maybe don’t say anything. Don’t say anything at all.
Wanna get a local song considered for the playlist? To make things easy on both of us, email keith@racketmn.com with MONDAY PLAYLIST in the subject header. (Don’t, as in do NOT, DM or text: If I’m in a good mood, I’ll just ask you to send an email; if I’m in a bad mood I’ll just ignore it.)
