Grind My Gears – Fucked

Summer is nearly wrapped up over here so it’s time to get right back into the miserable weather, miserable conversation and general misery of being in a Northern part of the world. Fuck the tanned people and their day drinking, fuck the sweaty patch on the small of your back, fuck the tourists who stop walking every two seconds on the street. It’s high time for the grey, grim and gruesome to rear it’s resentful head. This weeks entry into Grind My Gears might just be the most obtuse and vehemently bleak thing you’ll hear the rest of this summer. I love that I get to write this next bit. Get Fucked.

Grind My Gears – mothmother

The best music comes from people who have something to say. A lot of the time, the things that these musicians want to say aren’t easily digestible. The whole “tortured artist” cliché exists for a reason after all; art in its purest form is the expression of emotion and the most prevalent emotions in the world’s best art are misery, melancholy and malevolence. This is a bit more high brow than a regular introduction to Grind My Gears, I know, but this week’s artist performs with a fervor and ferocity that draws from the most vile of mistreatment. The subject matter of mothmother’s devastating debut \ˈpe​-​sə​-​ˌmi​-​zəm\ isn’t light, so be warned.