by Scott Nicholas
We exist in a complicated scenario; people and places often do not genuinely align in their attempts to do so and, looking in, it can be overwhelming to try to think of how simply to be or how to remain involved in it. Jerk Routine, like most of Pile's discography, diminishes this notion, simply by existing as a whole and as a monument to relieving yourself of restraint.
In the psychedelia of childhood, our imaginations assign complexities to blades of grass, to their neighboring creatures and give them social interactions, political systems and love affairs to endure. The art, in the descriptions of it all, employed lyrically on Jerk Routine are adult manifestations of this high imagination. They're fluid and demand respect as they explore and seep through themselves. The music surrounding these ideas facilitates them perfectly; its drunk, organic, precise and real.
All at once, Jerk Routine, is full of roots. It's punk Bob Dylan climbing the mountains of Robert Johnson to a peak of honesty that comes down to just a couple of young brilliant minds in a room or two full of wires and microphones, thank god, plugged in to document and immortalize all that they could, no holds barred. Thanks, Pile.