Review: Sextile — yes, please.

Sextile
yes, please.
Sacred Bones
Street: 05.02.2025
Sextile = Jockstrap + Pixel Grip / taking acid with your ex

As a genre, post-punk is limitless and ever-expanding. There are some artists with a sound so cutting-edge that they get shoved into the grouping regardless of how close it resembles its origins. The category ends up being a catch-all basket for the new-age oddballs creating mind-bending noise and changing our very understanding of what music could be. That’s why I adore it. A thorough understanding of how genre is outlined and delineated demands a knowledge of how our racial, gender and sexual identities are foundational to the lines drawn between each classification. The continual growth of music has led to the blurring and bleeding of these lines. Sound is shared, stolen, borrowed, reworked, loved and hated before returned to its owner — if there ever was one in the first place. This subject has sparked legal battles lasting years, and the question is: Can anyone really own infinitesimal waves of air? The answer is: Americans will find a way to own anything. And when it comes to sleazy syncopation, Sextile owns it. 

Sex doesn’t just sell, it begs for attention — asking audiences to listen, to care. Alongside other needs such as air, water and food, the substance is just as nourishing and intoxicating. Sextile has placed its forefingers on the neck of the aural zeitgeist and located its pulse. Feeling the constant rhythm of blood pumping through its veins, mimicking drumlines and what women respond the most to: bass. There is a certain allure to the thrash DNB mixed with metal pop. Dripping with grunge glamour, the beat captures your gaze and brings you in closer with each kick drum and snare. Imagine being lost in your favorite city all alone on a random Saturday at midnight, and think of what would you like to listen to as you wander the streets. I promise you, this is it. yes, please. has the unmistakable air of an underground rave, where you have to know a secret handshake to get in. And you just got it on the first try.

With an uncanny 13 tracks, yes please. delivers on every pseudo-sexual level. The aptly named “Intro” is a digitally rendered audio image of every folder hiding in the trashcan icon living in the righthand bottom corner of your laptop screen. It’s the vodka-sponsored pregame to the tonal shifts that will be explored throughout the project. Each element melts together in your throat like clear liquor with a gatorade chaser. As clear as the wails of sirens, “Women Respond to Bass” takes the low pitches and drowns them in a vast, dark ocean. Each drop that makes up the whole ripples in effect, the tones harmoniously crashing. The tempo accelerates towards a late night evening spent with strangers. In “Freak Eyes,” the synths and breakbeats make out in the middle of a crowd after meeting for the first time. Expectedly getting your heart racing, “Push Ups” breaks down the pitch and tramples it into the ground. It’s obviously a must add for your workout playlist. Unexpectedly, “99 Bongos” begins with an audio clip of rain falling. After a few moments of the ruse, the beat reaches the climatic moment and drops and Melissa Scaduto keeps the cadence steady with every hit of the drum. 

“S is For” something I’ve been alluding to way too often throughout this review. However, the song itself spotlights the notion center stage for all to enjoy. It lists words that start with “S” over and over again, including but not limited to: “slag,” “shit,” “sassy,” “sick”  and my personal favorite, “sweat.” I try not to play the part of a film student but I must reference the movie Climax here, as I would have absolutely picked “Rearrange” to be on the soundtrack if I was given the chance. The vocals are layered over each other so that you can still hear the beginning and end of each line between the individual voice tracks. I fucking love it. I mean, who among us has never wondered, “Where’s Kurt Cobain?” Shifting into more muted tones, “Resist” is aching to get out of its audible cage. Brady Keehn shouts while standing far from the mic, echoing the reverberation between the screams. What could be better than a “Kiss?” Rivaling songs of the same name by Prince and Mannequin Pussy, the version made by Sextile holds its own as a tribute to the  innocuous carnal desire. Closing with a much more mellow mood, “Soggy Newports” is the end to a weekend-long bender when all you’re left with is an empty bank account and a wet pack of cigarettes. 

Sextile aims to please and yes, they did. You get everything with this album: the seduction, the substance and the sizzle. Each component is insatiably strewn together by the strands of a tiny mini skirt. Whenever new music comes out that feels so intrinsically celebratory and lustful, I’m reminded that recession pop is back! The one upside to an economic downturn is that there is a call for escapist media to take listeners by the hand into a world filled with time for parties and love. The goal of making amusement electronica is to make that feeling completely immersive. —Marzia Thomas

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