Fluorescent pink isn’t for girls, exclusively. In fact, zoom in on a glowing ember, beyond the fibrous connectivity, until you reach scaly, solid turns into a tadpole wiggling around a blooming petunia. Ok, it’s not a petunia. It’s a My First Sony. But that little wiggler circling around it thinks it’s a flower, and are you really going to destroy the moment’s beauty by saying, look who’s talking, now, that’s just a sample and an echo effect on his voice and they’re two dudes with a drum and some stuff and, wait a sec, where did the image go? Dissect anything far enough, and there’s no way to call it beautiful anymore. Instead, start repeating the word ”Animals”…”Ah-ni-mals…Ani-mals…Animals…Ahnimaals…” until your hand points up to nowhere in the sky and you realize Gangi is probably the best thing cranking out of an attic in Pasadena. Leave the attic and enter the garage, where The Muslims, really the most blend-into-the-party dudes, crank out some rock that resurrects, not something primeval, but something from the core, maybe the ’60s, that actually is just, oh, my god, can I have it on vinyl, amazing. AMAZING. Start doing the sweaty, non-committal twist immediately. Infectious as a frothing Syphilis-inflicting kiss. This may have been the unsuspectingly best show of the summer. Thank you Manimal, you’re
onto something. Even missing Amanda Jo Williams, described by a fan as ”June Carter on acid and helium,” and Pizza!, who’ve got a buzz going that’ll argue the apocalypse is not at hand, despite what Einstein said about bees.

– Daiana Feuer