Our three big guys Papaye are back with a brand new record, their second, precisely, freshly filled with splintered math rock, seriously fun.
Indeed, it is like they can make a laugh of their own amazing skills of musicians.
Two guitars interplaying on fuzz, whammy bomb dive powered, crazy drums (Europapaye), mainly instrumental, only one track over the three minutes length, - they do roller coasters of their (en franšais, kids) fous mélodies, somehow like Agaskodo Teliverek, but, here, manga pulp-core filtered, and enchanted with tennis skirt. There's also room for some trumpet on Monica Seles (someone should update Seles' wikipage at voice 1993 stabbing/tribute and cite Papaye), and a dog successfully barking on Super, Marcher!.
They chorally sing only on Grapes, and frankly I was expecting to hear something like "Excuse me miss, could you hold my balls while I get my huge racket out of my bag?" [via] among their lyrics, no, they didn't, - frankly everything would have benefited. Maybe.
Bad jokes said, these tracks are genuinely winning their match, - I'm sure that live, they make a big wild set, and if you're wondering what Love means, well, ask tennis.
not yet, probably nobody cares, or nobody cared enough to tell something. Also: nobody reads komakino.
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