21 September 2006
tell your friends...
Words by Sean Moeller//Illustration by Ally Ritchie
There’s this record store near here with a sign, written on what looks like a torn off hinge of a white Von Maur gift box that flannels or sweaters get exchanged in come the holiday season. The letters were formed with a black Sharpie marker and two arrows point south to two rows of hanging CDs—jewel cases as idols—on both sides of the short, pissy, condescending statement, “If you don’t own these records, hang your head in SHAME!” It’s entirely possible that if Kyp Malone, Tunde Adebimpe and the rest of TV on the Radio walked in that door, there would be minimal if any shame. They must have listened to all of those records, three dozen times. There’s so much involved with “Return to Cookie Mountain” that someone would have to major in record collecting and minor in English, with an emphasis in the art of delineating a trapdoor from a cave—one an unforeseen, troublesome hatch and the other an place of hidden advantage. The trapdoors and the misdirections that you fall through upon the first listen of this second full-length are enchanting and dizzying. It’s as if someone just flipped on a stanchion of stadium lights in your bedroom, pounding you out of a deep sleep, then put you back to bed and two minutes later, did the same thing. You’re completely disoriented and have nothing clear. And you’re coming back for seconds because when The Smiths and “De-Loused in the Comatorium” meet for a melee, you’ve got to pay attention.
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