Everyone loves a good curse word, right? Especially the ever reliable and versatile "fuck." Sure, it could be argued that overzealous use of the word comes across as immature and unimaginative. Yet, sometimes, a single perfectly-placed "fuck" can increase the emotional impact of a song tenfold, creating an unparalleled moment of catharsis. Other times, it's just really fucking fun to say and no ulterior motive is needed. So here are ten of my most favorite uses of the word in song - or at least the ten I most instantaneously remembered upon conceiving of this post.

Florist has the honor of being today's header image because I couldn't pass up the opportunity to use such an adorable photo. Led by Emily Sprague, this is another band associated with the Epoch collective, which I'm just going to keep repping here because all of its members are incredibly talented. In fact, you may recognize Felix Walworth from Told Slant on drums; they've actually appeared on Tiny Desk three times (previously with Eskimeaux and Bellows), which must be some sort of record. The gentle, honest simplicity of Florist's low-key performance is instantly charming, and I've now fallen head over heels for their recent debut album, The Birds Outside Sang, which I'll surely have more to say about later. That album's sweetly unassuming sing-along "1914" closes the set, but "Vacation" and "Cool and Refreshing" from last year's Holdly EP make up the bulk of it. Sprague writes direct, hard-hitting observations (i.e. "Please remember to feed the cat/Please remember that I'm never coming back") but sings them so nonchalantly that it takes a moment for their full impact to hit.


Seratones is a blues-and-gospel-infused rock band out of Shreveport, Louisiana. They released their first album, Get Gone, a few weeks ago, and, as is so often the case, Spotify's Discover Weekly feature introduced them to me. My playlists have been pretty spotty recently, but within the first thirty seconds of "Don't Need It," I knew it was a winner. It's the first song of their Tiny Desk set, too, and AJ Haynes' fiery, versatile vocals will knock your socks off (meanwhile, her giggly nervous energy between songs will put hearts in your eyes). Even her occasional flaws play well against the loose, rollicking style of the instrumentation. Seratones' music has already drawn comparisons to Alabama Shakes, but their tight songwriting and performance skills make them more than a mere imitation. Their talent is solidified by "Get Gone" and "Chandelier," though these offer only a tiny, tantalizing taste of what's to be found on their impressively consistent debut.

While many artists of their ilk are known for prolific levels of output, Told Slant has only released one album, 2012's Still Water, which I've only recently begun to love as a whole. Walworth's voice has a raw, untrained quality that can initially be hard to digest. Yet there's an inchoate beauty in its abrasiveness that reveals itself over time. In its many cracks and wobbles is a well of emotion that threatens to bubble over at any second, made even more intense by lyrics that unflinchingly navigate themes of body image, gender identity, and depression. Walworth has a talent for gut-punching one-liners, e.g. "Who's going to kiss your undressed chest when I'm gone," "I'm living horribly, so I don't want to know how you're doing," etc. Compounded by the minimalist intensity of the music, they'll haunt your memory for days afterward.


On June 17th, Told Slant's sophomore effort, Going By, will be released. The first taste of the album is "Low Hymnal," which took a few listens to grow on me but I now find utterly undeniable. Like the band's previous work, its primary appeal is emotional. The sparse, atmospheric instrumentation, composed of electric guitar, percussion, and banjo, serves as the backbone upon which Walworth's hard-hitting lyrics rest.

The song begins in the aftermath of transformation: "When the dirge is done, and my body is still my body but not the illegible one." Finally comfortable in their own skin, the narrator fears the loss of a meaningful relationship - not to mention, a source of support - via their lover's rejection of their new self. This sense of anxiety is made uncomfortably palpable by Walworth's quietly insistent murmur. "Why don't you comfort me?" they insist, reminding their lover how they once served as a comforting presence, too: "I know my heart is a window in the dark to you."

As the song picks up speed and intensity, though, this potentially upsetting situation is turned into a life-affirming one. "Felix, you can battering-ram this life," Walworth repeats like a mantra, their voice trembling with the liberating realization that only they can define their own self-worth. It's a bittersweet revelation, an acceptance of the positive as well as the negative, as most of Told Slant's songs are. Its honesty also carries an immense amount of bravery, a quality that will surely serve the rest of the album well.

From NPR Music's Tumblr

From Tumblr user johnwawker

What takes the song to the next level is its music video, which is full of .GIF-worthy moments like the one above. In the video, Hopkins and Bruce commandeer "some random waterpark," as the end credits call it, for their own fabulous uses, turning it into a playground for their endearingly competitive lip-syncing, vamping, and posing. Blurring the lines between comedy and seduction, it's so fun, charming, and addictive you can't help but be reminded of it every time the song plays. There's also this incredibly bad-ass moment where Bruce glides gracefully down a dry waterslide before effortlessly bouncing up to sell the shit out of their verse. It's seriously awe-inspiring.

From NPR Music's Tumblr

Aside from having an amazing band name, Fear of Men released one of my favorite albums of 2014 in their full-length debut, Loom. The band recently announced its follow-up, Fall Forever, which is scheduled for U.S. release on 6/3. Happily, the album's first single, "Island," picks up exactly where Loom left off two years ago.

Thrashing its way to the surface of a sea of hazy, looped vocals, the song is initially propelled by only a precise, persistent drumbeat and Jessica Weiss's appealingly pure delivery. If one is listening only passively, it might be easy to mistake her voice for monotonous or indifferent: the emotion conveyed is incredibly subtle, reliant on barely perceptible shifts in phrasing and tone, but, ultimately, all the more deeply affecting. She asserts her independence through lyrics as straightforward as her voice, insisting, "I'm like an island/I don't need to feel your arms around me." Gradually, barely-there bass, droning, shoegaze-inspired guitars, and meticulously programmed synths join the instrumental mix, but Weiss's deceptively small voice easily rises above it all as she continues, "Used to be scared to be misunderstood/Now I don't care if I'm not what you want."

These lyrics follow the standard set by Loom, utilizing simple, matter-of-fact language to relay daunting concepts and heavy emotions. They culminate in the effervescent chorus, a perfect storm of words and melody that'll stay stuck in your head for days: "You tell me impossible things that break me, that break me/You tell me impossible things that shake me, that shake me to my core." At just over three minutes, "Island" feels satisfyingly weighty despite its light-as-air qualities, allowing it to sit comfortably alongside Fear of Men's past singles, like "Luna" and "Seer." It'll be interesting to see whether the album as a whole leans in a more experimental direction or treads familiar territory throughout.