Power Pyramid doesn’t have much patience for nonsense. That appears to be the takeaway from the Oklahoma City quintet’s last 10 months, which brought The God Drums in September, the Insomnia EP in January and its latest, self-titled effort in July.
The world is in the midst of an electronic music renaissance, and you find most of this boon of producers laying claim to the club-friendly, bass-dropping variety, holing up in the the free-flowing world of hip-hop beatmaking or pitching their tent on the out-there, boundary-pushing EDM camp.
Broncho has never been hurting in the hook department. The success of the trio’s 2011 debut, Can’t Get Past the Lips, was predicated mostly on its ability to marry melodies with kinetic guitar riffs and anarchic energy. Yet we’ve heard nothing to the degree of pure pop catchiness on display in “Class Historian,” the new single from Broncho’s upcoming sophomore album, Just Enough Hip to Be Woman.
No one wants to be forgotten; everyone wants some sort of legacy, a mark they leave behind as they exit this life for whatever lies beyond.
And for as long as there has been death, there have been monuments — whether austere or understated, abstract or concrete, prominent or tucked away in private — erected by the ones they loved to assure that remembrance, at least for a time.
Taylor Swift 7 p.m. Saturday Chesapeake Energy Arena 100 W. Reno chesapeakearena.com 602-8700
Despite several attempts to contact Taylor Swift’s record label, management, backing band members, tightly cloistered press squadron, immediate family, scores of jaded boyfriends, and stable of talking unicorns and pegasii, I failed to procure an interview with the 21-year-old, flaxen-haired songstress in advance of her Saturday-night date with Oklahoma City.
I mean, it’s not like it’s a really big deal or anything.
It wasn’t like talking on the phone for 15 minutes was going to lead to her remarking how I sounded sweet, then me coyly asking if she was seeing anybody, followed by her saying I should come hang out at one of her famous T-Parties after the show, during which she’d surely have dedicated one of her especially romantic songs (it probably would’ve been “You Belong with Me” or “I’m Only Me When I’m with You”) to the cute-voiced boy journalist she got to talk to the week before, wherever in the crowd he was.
I mean, c’mon, really: The country’s biggest female pop star — who’s sold nearly 35 million digital tracks worldwide — was supposed to look out in the crowd, lock eyes with some indie-music snob while she was midway through that tricky chord progression on “You’re Not Sorry,” and suddenly realized in her heart that it was me who’d talked to her for that divine quarter-hour?
Please, I’ve played this scenario out in my head at least as many times as I’ve watched “Valentine’s Day” (17) and the odds of it happening are just a skosh better than one in 15,000, according to my hopes and dreams.
However, Ms. Swift, I must wonder, why did you spurn my request for an interview? Why, through so many channels, did you deny me the opportunity to inebriate myself with the scent of your flowing, curly blond hair, which I’ve often imagined to smell of a blueberry-pomegranate yogurt that matches the dress you wear on the cover of your most recent album? Is it because you’re afraid of how much I love you? Which is so much that all my cats bear the names of the men for whom you’ve written songs?
Or is it because you fear falling in love with a mere commoner, one of competitively curly hair, pasty skin and circus-folk lineage? Because I’ll do whatever it takes to earn even a moment of your affections. I’ll dig through Kanye West’s and Taylor Lautner’s garbage until I find just what I need to implode both of their careers. I’ll do it sooner than you can say “Better Than Revenge.”