Wet sag: wet sag album review

Wet your leg with humor to disrupt these expectations. The orgasm that I received I mean girls The basic references and allusions in “Chaise Longue” seemed a bit exaggerated—evidence of listeners desperate for luxury (and presumably they shrugged off the absurd in dry cleaning‘s for the first time) —but there are some really funny moments elsewhere on the album. It is best to exaggerate the various situations of existential terror in which they find themselves, even though they sometimes inflict devastating insult. The choppy waves in A Piece of Shit take a call from an angry ex, and at first Tisdale shrugs off their accusations, using negativity to piss them off even more: “I’m a bitch? / OK / What helps you sleep at night?” Chambers joins them in an odd, slightly odd tune adding insult to injury: “Yeah, like a piece of shit, it either sinks or floats/So you take it for a ride on your father’s boat.”

Other than that, there are plenty of mocking references to my penis, pubes, masturbation, and mockery of mummy and daddy that can wear out like a wet-leg leaning on outrageous pettiness. Sometimes when they go the low road, it’s just the low road: “I woke up so much/Diet Coke,” they mock “Oh no”, a lyrical analogue that deepens when they think about phone overuse, a topic they don’t need Nobody write about it again. (At least they made up for it with some action-packed mayhem.) And the last song, “Too Late Now,” is undoubtedly a palpable panic attack about the point of all this that concludes: “I just need a bubble bath to put me on a higher path,” a skewer of Self-care already feels outdated.

Most acute is their sharp eye for assessing self-deception: how feeling in one’s mid-twenties and arousal is simply mitigated by the lowest levels. While none of these notes are new (they’re the bedrock of soulful indie rock that followed the old party-started genre), Witt got a leg up on them by nuance. “Being in Love” suggests a porous barrier between feelings of utter depression and infatuation, a risky romance they sell based on the power of a big, stupid mudslide of knees in the chorus. When a shriek of noise boils over at the end of “Angelica,” a song about a dirty party, Teasdale merrily sings about “Good Times/All the Time”—it’s “We Can’t Stop” with Red Stripe and wallflowers.

Some idiot moves another shit party in “I Don’t Want To Go Out” to Los Angeles with his band. “Will you stay young forever?” Tisdale asks in a daze before shedding light on the matter Jarvis Impersonation: “I said yes – and I’m going away.” As much as Teasdale and Chambers sometimes delight in childish oblivion (the ramshackle “supermarket” basks in the tumultuous chaos of stone-cut grocery shopping), you feel they can’t imagine anything worse than the condemnation of eternal youth. Their first debut doesn’t skimp on outlining the horrors of being a young woman – but its exotic, edgy pleasures are also a testament to creating your own survival reality.