In the same way the patronizing liberal in me shrugs his shoulders as loudly as possible when confronted with dubious sexual practice (“Dear friend, I shop at Whole Foods. Do what you please in your own bedroom.”), I’ve adopted the live and let live attitude toward EDM. Whatever gets your ass in the upright, pop and locked position.

Of course, this kind of rave sucker relativism banks more cultural currency than critical value. I am supposed to have opinions about this stuff, yanno? Even when its field is a hundred thousand barely distinct baby psilocybins boffing each other at 145 bpm. And let’s not forget those remixes, hyperdubs, overdubs, mashups, rips, flips, syphilis, and candy carts. Those factor into the whole.

Which leaves me feeling sorta down about my job here at Odyshape, or anywhere, really - even if this went up on Pitchfork, I’d be screaming opinions down a hole while rave circuit gleefully rocks what I hate, ignore what I love, and move on in three days anyway to Tiesto’s MIA’s remixes’ overdub ft. Iggy Azalea again, but not as you heard her the first time.

Reviewing EDM in 2014 is like slapping a Post-It note to a hollow point .357 as it whirs toward ten thousand millenials too busy with Snapchat to recognize they’ve been fancifully herded into an Esther’s Starbucks line of infinite recession. Er… regression.

And though the capital-A Album isn’t dead in the same way the rheumatic elite of populist NYT, NPR, WashPost want you to believe, EDM might well be diagnosed as the album’s fetid lower appendage - the lifeblood from which is drawn always by any thoughtful (read: poor) young DJ with a Mac and the patience to stay in a Starbucks once he’s there. Of the nearly dozen legitimately outfitted DJs in my undergrad frat, none owned an entire album’s worth of material from a single artist. In fact, many of their tracks were dubbed and redubbed so extensively, the origin became a guessing game.

What I’m saying is - reviewing an EDM record is quaint: like rotary phone, Windows XP, moderate Republican quaint. But I’m going to do it because exploratory old farts like myself (I’m not exactly aged yet, so maybe old fart in the same way nice young people are old souls) will spend time and money to rave out in a recliner, offering up pacifiers and water bottles to babies and diabetics, respectively.

deadmau5 - while(1<2)

Cheeky, cheeky, cheeky. Midnight on Bloomsday, this tragic little imp man flies mighty close to the sun (er, moon) and drops upon the parched masses an enormous double album, split perfectly down the middle into two 69-minute halves (har har), a monument titled while(1<2) - JavaScript language meaning infinite loop. Dirty nasty fart sex and Finnegans Wake, anyone? Legitimacy points anyway for buttressing eight years of back catalogue bric a brac against a capital-N Novel that took 17 years to “write,” and one that reads just as while(1<2) sounds: unintelligible, jangly, ponderous, quite old, brand new, incontinent, ultimately maddening. Some of it, just some, gets my goofy ass awiggle - but no one song in this mass sustains a groove long enough to proffer forecasted dividends on that molly investment. Outro from the guy really being dubbed here: “Language this allsfare for the loathe of Mauses ambiviolent about it. Will you swear all the same you saw their shadows a hundred foot later, struggling diabolically over this, that and the other, their virtues pro and his principality con, near The Ruins, Drogheda Street, and kicking up the devil’s own dust for the Milesian wind?”

Big Freedia - Just Be Free

This is one fucking awesome song. Except that it’s an album. I don’t know much Java, which must mean I’m not as sm4rt as wunderkind Joel Thomas Zimmerman, so let me draft a Just Be Free song for you in form of an equation:

((z > 808 + threatening man queen vocals(notated as xy for clarity)) x 16) + .5xx

Change literally nothing but the singular word you should expect to hear over and over and over. So lemme ask: which one strikes you as the most compelling hammer hook? “Wiggle,” “Dangerous,” “Jump on the booty,” “Lift Dat Leg Up,” “Explode.” Take that one, put it in your stanky playlist and move on. Who gives a fuck about an Oxford Comma?