ARTIST: Caves
TITLE: Get On With It
LABEL: Self-Released
GENRE: Rock
BITRATE: 221kbps avg
PLAYTIME: 0h 40m total
RELEASE DATE: 2007-00-00
RIP DATE: 2008-06-19
Track List
----------
1. Curiousity 3:11
2. Get On With It 3:35
3. Soldier 3:32
4. I Lied 4:27
5. Rock You To Sleep 3:53
6. Optimist Pessimist 3:16
7. Metaphysical 3:20
8. Closure 3:08
9. Without Thinking 3:17
10. Samurai 3:40
11. You (Plus) Me 4:48
Release Notes:
DonÆt panic. Not now.
YouÆre at a party. You're in a dank, crumbling loft space filled with a writhing
mass of 200 sweating kids and blue coils of stale smoke, and you're right in the
center of it. The four guys tweaking their instruments on stage are called
Caves, and all of them are bouncy and gaunt and semi-professional nostril
flarers by the looks of it. Some girl's breasts are pressed up against your back
and even if you wanted to move you couldn't. Sipping your beer is an exercise in
gymnastics and timing, it's so crowded. The kid in front of you keeps tilting
his head back and spraying a sticky light-catching mist of cheap vodka into the
air, and no one can get him to stop. If that wasnÆt enough, you just saw a guy
flash a knife at Brian Morris, the dimpled drummer, for winking at the dude's
girlfriend. Someone in front of a humming monitor is wearing a large and creepy
panda mask. Jake Carey, the singer, is adjusting his mic stand, seemingly
oblivious to the girl at his feet who is clearly dry humping his florescent
hi-tops. She's weeping, too. The band hasnÆt even started playing yet.
Caves launch into their first song and you can feel it immediately in your
chest, a sonic bowling ball to the ribcage. David Benedetti spits on the panda
head as he and Jake coax strange noises out of their guitars, sounds that
emulate the poisonous violin chops that usually precede on-screen butchery. Tim
West begins to rhythmically assault the bass, each calculated pluck both thick
and dirty. This turns the crowd into rabid animals.
Just when Caves seem to settle into a sound, they speed it up and strip it down
until it's sinister. Brian lays pulsing Public-Enemy drums underneath, creating
a driving pastoral that borders on deranged. Their wildness is almost
mathematical, a perpetually collapsing star on a short leash, never quite fully
out of control, but hot and close enough to singe your eyelashes.
Somehow, through practice or talent or devotion or passion or breeding, Caves
are as tight on stage as they are on their album, executing every syncopated
plot point perfectly, and when you close your eyes you can't tell which
direction the sound is coming from. They are, in essence, the soundtrack to a
never-made Hitchcock film about love-crazed, epileptic, murderous teenagers, if
scored by the Clash. Illicit and catchy, every song a call to arms. The sound is
swollen and veiny with throbbing, planetary force. And people are dancing like
drunken rag dolls.
It's immediately apparent that this music is eponymously sorrowful and violent.
It's music for fighting and fucking. When you realize you aren't doing either,
you drop your beer on a pair of copulating lovebirds and take a parabolic swing
at the guy in front of you. As your knuckles kiss his temple, you wonder if
anything else will make you feel this way again.