songs/bands that made you feel all weird (or still do) by being so uncanny, so unlike other music, by unusual juxtapositions, etc.
I'll start with the first ones that spring to mind. get all tl;dr.
then post your own. hopefully some new weird stuff I haven't heard.
Clinic made me feel pretty strange when I first heard them. I'm thinking 'Come Into Our Room', 'Circle of Fifths', but especially 'Distortions'.
not merely *that* line. Ade's sickly sounding voice, the uneasy sterility of the organ and drum machine. then the mention of bodies, shaving, baby in a coffin... something of half-remembered hospital wards or embalming rooms.
and yet in that line there's a glimmer, a light playing across the inky wells of dilated pupils.
it was odd to discover how popular 'In the Aeroplane Over the Sea' was and increasingly, still, is. I remember hearing 'The King of Carrot Flowers part 1' for the first time after Limewiring a few tracks after reading about it on P4K in early 2004, when said website was still, to me, something I'd stumbled across by accident and had never heard any previous mention of, and within which lay reams of praise for bands completely foreign, like some kind of musical Aldi.
erm...yeah, anyway, the artwork and the name and the song title were odd enough, and this was apparently the third best record of the previous decade, just after an album by that band I'd heard in passing on Mark and Lard but nowhere else. and then this guy starts by bellowing about loving Jesus Christ, and I didn't know what I was hearing, some weird outsider evangelist savant or something.
and it makes me sad how popular it actually is. I wish it could still be that freakish broadcast in my mind only, a look between fascination and disgust that no one else knows the root cause of.
another Pitchfork discovery, ahaha. this is why it used to be so great to me.
again, the artwork struck me and still does - a blackened hand, black feathers, eyes, an inky miasma - and the title likewise - 'Tilt', one word, suggesting a macroscopic upending of reality, the world as a sandbox physically jarred.
but I knew the name, knew of Scott Walker vaguely through my mum. but the music, fucking hell, it's still the bizarre reality-slanting shock it always was. that contorted operatic baritone against a sheer black sheen, warped and oppressive, fucking with perspective like some sudden monolith rending forth from the ground.