Sleigh Bells are Lebron James in 2003. Prematurely hyped, but somehow exceeding it. Their music comes across as fresh and carefree, even though it might be more calculated than any other tune beamed over the Internet. And if that's the case, good for them. Their music steals unapologetically from the Dirty South to Weezer, but it doesn't matter, because it is so fun to listen to. They ask the ultimate questions of our life's minutia, and answer them in the breeziest manner.
Congratulations to M.I.A. for going Dr. Dre on us and promoting ascendant proteges. She discovered a band that owns what the hip music scene craves most: shit that sounds bad, but is good, so as to weed out the ear of mild palette; left field pop hooks; lo-fi production values; dynamic instrumentation and laptop beats.
At the same time, N.E.E.T. must be a Ma and Pa record label, because the vinyl still isn't out. Lizzie and I were talking today that it is the vinyl we crave the most. Sure, Sleigh Bells built their rep with mp3s, but I won't be satisfied until I have Treats in 12x12 form.
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