A little tickle

I was sick one recent weekend, and in my convalescence I tried to suss out the future of music. Amazing how delusional a fever can make you.

Jesse R. Berlin
Glitter Lung
I came to utterly no conclusions, save one: In the end, the connection between music and the human brain is a mystical one. To put it another way, one man's Delerium Tremens is another man's Coors Light. Or, if you're "Jesse R. Berlin," you pour both into a glass and call it a $20 cocktail.

You can Google Berlin's bio (that's not his name, and the bio is gleefully nonsensical) to get a good sense of this album. In general, the palette is electronic pastiche, but the goal seems to be amusement. Nothing deep. Nothing particularly accessible. Just an odd collection of blips, beats and half-assed vocals. Sounds like a steaming pile, right?

It's not. But enjoyment of this album is predicated on not taking it seriously. Glitter Lung isn't a Spinal Tap-esque put on, but it isn't a sincere effort, either. "Berlin" hails from Brooklyn (not the "Tex-Mex blues scene," as his bio states), and this does have the trappings of hipster doodling. The sounds and songs are all over the place, but I came away with too many wry smiles to toss this in the fire.

Probably not well-suited to repeat listenings, but pretty entertaining in its own right. Glitter Lung is a silly excuse for an album, but that doesn't mean it won't work its way under your skin. Sometimes silliness is exactly what is needed.

Jon Worley

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