Vogue

Brilliantly subversive, the Vogue just might very well be the next evolution in pop. This Seattle-based collective of youngsters have recently made an exodus out of high school and craft some of the most arty surrealistic futurist pop, which usually requires eons of experience to pull off. Their rhythmic structure and time signatures go way off the Geiger counter and all over the place; it's as if the Police's Stewart Copeland and King Crimson's Bill Bruford's genes collided with the angularity of an M.C. Escher woodcut and punk-rock without being punks. An infinity of influences abound, eerie organs dance around androgynous vocals whining abstract yet lucid lyrics and minimalist guitars twang away, making their sounds virtually impossible to replicate for others. While some might find them a tad off-putting, it is simply because they possess what others wish they had, youth and one fucking truthfully giant balls-y attitude, which to me is a necessity to keep the spirit of music alive and real. This band is certainly someone to look out for; one cannot always put a finger on what it is they do exactly, as just as one layer is unearthed, another one that is even more dense is revealed. One often wonders what the chemical content was in the breakfast cereals these kids ate whilst growing up. Whatever it is, order me a thousand boxes!