Warmbodys reviewed in The New Yorker

I was reading The New Yorker, and I realized that I can't get through a page w/o coming across a word that--not only do i not know what it means--i've never even heard of it before (Lazlow phrased that just right). I'm also baffled by their use of umlauts. Are they just really strict grammarians, or is there like "another" English for people who think that a one-frame, caption-free cartoon of a dog looking into a hand-mirror is funny? "Reestablish" with an umlaut over the "e"? Really? but maybe im just late.

I do, however, love the conceit of the writing. And as I was listenin to my Warmbodys Weekend joints at the time, a thought occurred. Yes, my own. So as a tribute to my two favorite writers (the first being Benjy and, the second being everyone who's ever written for the New Yorker combined) I thought I'd take a crack at reviewing a Warmbodys track, New Yorker style. Ahem.

"Those privy to the deevolution (umlaut over the second e) of Warmbodys' lyricism will find warm counter-points in the still-rising motifs of their latest concept album, an abbreviated Bildungsroman that sparkles with abated intentionality. While previous works sought to blossom in soil already well-cultivated, their latest proposal reflects a warmer approach to song-writing that produces a virtual fait accompli.

As a producer, Young Hebrew Brother evokes a Chekhovian deprecation. This is nowhere more evident than "Friday (My Only Weapon)," a beat so replete with interwoven ideologies that it must be tempered by a Chaucerian fabliau to retain its own modesty. Note this: a shuddering tour-de-force maintains a single monosonic consistency (pitch-pipe, hitchhike, what women like, thick-type, skin-tight, in-flight, insights, and mixed-right), only to have its virtuosity sublimated within a ribald rejoinder: "now I'm taking blows to the head like my penis in a fist-fight."

This reflects a more pervasive ambiguity, or perhaps a self-conscious awareness of the irrepressibility of form. For his part, Tox implies a stunning renvoi within the dialectics of a Petrarchan Sonnet. Posing at once a problem and its solution, Tox parlays, "romantic mood, it's semantics dude/ I'm the man on the Titanic who didn't like the food." The evocation of Jewish vaudeville is indicative of a new-wave of Jewish rap avant-garde.

The measure of a withering revivalism is assuredly the panache of its resurgence."

ok that was fun. Now on to the Cartoon Caption contest.