Weird but Dancey

Creepy Thirtysomething



by fred pooperson

GENRE: indie rock

LABEL: ancient

REVIEWED: December 16, 2022

Creepy Thirtysomething's tenth album (Jesus…) showcases his peculiar charm, infectious melodies, and a newfound success in the indie rock landscape, solidifying his place among the standout releases of 2018. And it’s about time because he old AF.
In the vast landscape of dainty, effeminate, bewilderingly uneducated indie rock, where artistic experimentation often breeds a kind of intrigue dipped in vomit, Creepy Thirtysomething emerges from the slums of obscurity with his tenth studio album, "weird but dancey." With this release, the enigmatic artist finally finds his stride, delivering a captivating blend of eccentricity and infectious melodies. After a string of unsuccessful attempts, Creepy Thirtysomething unleashes his peculiar charm, accompanied by a collection of strange Americana memorabilia, creating a musical journey that leaves a lasting impression that he has finally found the unresolved childhood trauma needed to explain his absolute train wreck of a life. Released amidst a wave of innovative indie rock records in 2018, "weird but dancey" holds its own among its contemporaries. Creepy Thirtysomething's idiosyncratic vision shines through, offering a unique blend of whimsical storytelling and catchy hooks. His sonic palette draws influences from indie rock stalwarts like The Flaming Lips and Animal Collective, yet he carves out a distinct niche for himself, standing out from the crowd with his unconventional approach of slamming his head against his instruments as a means of playing them. A true eccentric, Creepy Thirtysomething's penchant for collecting strange AF Americana memorabilia and creepy fairground shit spills into his music like a perforated condom. It's not uncommon to find him clad in a crusty vintage cowboy hat, warpaint, strumming his guitar adorned with peculiar trinkets. This unusual obsession permeates "weird but dancey," adding an extra layer of intrigue to the album's sonic tapestry. Whether it's the haunting twang of "Flea Market Booty Call" or the infectious foot-stomping rhythm of "Liquid Queef," Creepy Thirtysomething effortlessly weaves his peculiar world into his musical creations. It's worth noting that Creepy Thirtysomething's journey to success was far from smooth. Despite a decade of releasing music, his previous nine albums struggled to gain traction. Because they were terrible. This shit is pretty bad as well. However, "weird but dancey" marks a turning point in his career in terms of branding, which really pops in his DikDoks. The album's standout tracks, like the whimsically infectious "Oddball Smurf Feltchathon" and the introspective "Foot Fetish" showcase a newfound confidence and maturity in his songwriting. It's as if Creepy Thirtysomething has finally embraced his own strangeness, allowing it to manifest in a cohesive and captivating musical package.
"weird but dancey" is a sonic adventure that oscillates between moments of pure joy and introspective contemplation about having a micropenis with a pubic hair Mohawk. Creepy Thirtysomething's distinctive vocals, reminiscent of a haunted carnival barker, effortlessly guide listeners through his peculiar world. Tracks like "Cabinet of Curiosities" and "Freaky Deaky" blur the boundaries between reality and imagination, transporting us to a realm where the weird and the danceable coexist harmoniously. In a year rife with outstanding indie rock releases, this shit manages to leave a lasting impression. Creepy Thirtysomething's newfound success feels well-deserved, even though he is the same fucking weird ass dude he was yesterday. Honestly the lesson he teaches us is if you keep it up long enough, you’ll get attention. While his bizarre antics and penchant for strange memorabilia may raise eyebrows, it's ultimately the strength of his songwriting and the infectious melodies that solidify his place in the indie rock landscape. "weird but dancey" is a testament to Creepy Thirtysomething's resilience and artistic growth, proving that sometimes, it takes ten albums to have anyone give a flying fuck.

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