Spoon
– Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga
Spoon had honed minimalism into a weapon. Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga didn’t reinvent the wheel—it stared at it, stripped it for parts, and found the exact moment where repetition becomes hypnosis and simplicity becomes swagger. This is a band that understands how not playing a note can make the next one hit twice as hard. Every second feels like a choice, and not an overthought one—a gut instinct carried out with surgeon-level confidence.
Best of…
Britt Daniel still sings like he’s trying to talk you into something dangerous, but now he’s got sharper tools. The production has grown teeth—courtesy of Jon Brion on one track—but it never chokes out the groove. You’ve got horns, clinking pianos, reverb-drenched vocals, and silence used like punctuation. It’s post-punk boiled down to pop essence, but it doesn’t pander. It walks into the room knowing it’s cool and dares you to keep up.
The thing about Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga is how unforced it feels. It’s catchy without showing its work, emotional without sobbing into its sleeve. It’s not shouting for your attention. It’s already halfway down the street with your favorite jacket and you’re just now realizing it fits better on them anyway.
Choice Tracks
Don’t Make Me a Target
The opener hits like a warning shot. A slow, steady build that feels like stalking through a dark alley—tight snare, rolling keys, a chorus that opens wide without ever getting loud. It sets the tone: lean, mean, and just a little paranoid.
You Got Yr. Cherry Bomb
Jon Brion’s fingerprints are here, but so is that Spoon economy—horns burst in like they’re late to the party, then disappear. It’s soul music spiked with caffeine and regret. One of the rare tracks that could soundtrack both a wedding and a breakup.
The Underdog
Catchy as hell. Acoustic guitar strums like clockwork while the horns jab and sway. Lyrically, it’s sly and self-aware—Daniel taking the piss out of fame, ambition, and himself in equal measure. This is Spoon’s closest brush with pop radio, and it slaps.
My Little Japanese Cigarette Case
Barely over two minutes, but it makes every second count. A spy-movie riff, cryptic lyrics, and a half-whispered vocal that suggests secrets without spilling them. You’re not sure what happened, but you definitely liked it.
Black Like Me
A closing track that feels like stepping outside after a long night. Reflective and a little broken, it dials down the swagger and lets vulnerability peek through. The piano and acoustic guitar don’t rush. They let the song exhale.