What's so gracious? It’s unbending to be a hipster these days. Everyone is constantly giving away the whole show you your vibe hasn’t been unperturbed since 2004, your knees mar from tackling hills on your fixie, mundane good breeding blogs overanalyze your aesthetic ad naseum, nobody understands your wry allusions to Heidegger and Baudrillard, and worst of all, you must continually common knowledge up with new ways to repudiate your camaraderie with the forever ridiculed subculture of hipster. As hipsterdom becomes ever more ubiquitous, plainly hated, and paltry (more vain than the superior meaninglessness with which it began? Can I get a Sartre on Nietzsche pseudo-scholar conference for this one?), it’s tonic that a ensemble is assenting to get up up to those absolutely un-hip Others with an opinion that says “hey guy, my shirt is not ironic, I exactly like it.” In fine dissent of the ironic your-dad-in-the-beginning-80’s/pedophile hipster mustache, the bassist displays his I-liking-I-were-a-walrus vibrissae with hauteur. And what’s more, it appears this corps absolutely likes baseball. No, they don’t endure baseball shirts or caps because they’re fashionable—or should I say intentionally incongruent with accepted fragrant, light-skinned, urban styles—but because they might in actuality consolidate seasoned baseball. As a die-firm fan of America’s favorite distraction (I bleed Angel red), I much valuable the album name, christen ferret out, and the allusions it contains.
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