TV on the Radio
– Return to Cookie Mountain
TV on the Radio didn’t just make a follow-up to Desperate Youth, Blood Thirsty Babes—they threw that map into the furnace and built something weirder, heavier, and far more dangerous. Return to Cookie Mountain is what happens when a band decides to treat studio walls like a challenge, not a limitation. It crackles with dense sound, shifting rhythms, and vocals that sound like they’ve been dug up from an ancient, sentient vinyl pressing. There’s beauty here, but it’s buried under layers of distortion, paranoia, and gospel melodies funneled through a shortwave radio.
Best of…
Tunde Adebimpe and Kyp Malone deliver vocals that lurch from baritone sermon to falsetto spell, while Dave Sitek’s production keeps the floor unsteady. You don’t listen to this album for hooks—even though they’re there. You listen because it feels like someone’s broadcasting the future from a bunker under Brooklyn, and you’ve just tuned in by mistake. Or fate. It’s industrial without being cold, political without preaching, and somehow spiritual without ever sounding like a revival tent.
What’s great is how all this noise and texture never becomes clutter. They manage to pack anxiety and awe into the same verse, twist soul and post-punk together until neither is quite recognizable. And when David Bowie drops by for backup vocals on “Province,” it feels less like a cameo and more like a passing of the torch—an acknowledgment that TV on the Radio were, at this point, the most interesting thing coming through the static.
Choice Tracks
Wolf Like Me
Yes, it’s the hit, but it earns every second. It’s animalistic, relentless, and damn near explosive. Adebimpe sounds unhinged, like he’s singing with his teeth bared. It’s a full sprint of lust and panic dressed in rock clothing with a twitching beat.
I Was a Lover
Opening with a loop that feels like a rusted train station intercom, this track lays out the album’s tone: haunted, fractured, and strangely seductive. There’s a groove, but it’s broken in just the right places.
Province
David Bowie’s voice floats in like a ghost during a séance. But even without him, the song is a punch to the chest. It’s both yearning and defiant, held together by drums that hit like a nervous heartbeat.
Blues from Down Here
A slow-burn descent into paranoia and mourning. The gospel chant at the end doesn’t offer resolution—it’s more like a warning from beyond. There’s something heavy and desperate here, and it sticks with you.
Tonight
The comedown after the storm. A shimmering, moody piece of reflection that lets the listener breathe—but not too easy. It’s beautiful and unsettling, like a lullaby sung by someone who knows you won’t sleep anyway.