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But fucking

The album Sam Ray envisioned as his last begs close listening, but punctuated with impenetrable harshness, it malena sex scene almost prohibitively scattered.

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But artists, aware of their imminent demise, may try to get out in front of the posthumous obsession. He is happily married, irreverently tweeting, and touring with his band, now renamed American Pleasure Club.

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A picture of a lake at sunset is followed by a hand covered in blood. Sandwiched between a lyric sheet and band biography is a photograph of a man, face blacked out with Sharpie marker, injecting himself with a needle.

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At its worst moments, fucking bliss can feel similarly jarring. Fucking facade begins to crack after a minute, when a booming voice cuts in with the force of a bass drop at a poetry reading.

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Devoid of context, it can feel like Ray is trolling, or testing the listener: Each of these songs is uniquely glum, but together, they fail to coalesce into a greater whole. Ostensibly meant as messages left behind, they feel too dense, too layered, too rich with signifiers.

No explanation is offered in the lyrics, which are barely audible, pitched down or mixed too low to be but to the human ear. As a concept, the album begs close listening, but punctuated fucking impenetrable harshness, it is almost prohibitively scattered.