Yeah, I Bet by My Wife’s an Angel

When the world burns, everyone’s behavior, including our own, becomes insufferable, not only because nobody cares enough to put out the fires, but also because it’s hot as shit in here. Philadelphia no-wave outfit My Wife’s an Angel enters the studio for the first time with Yeah, I Bet, an angsty open letter dissecting our socially-conditioned sociopathy. Formidable walls of noisy, chaotic guitars sit atop a foundation of a jazzy, adaptable rhythm section, all of which allows the band to rapidly pivot between sections of tight, anthemic riffing and murky, unpredictable improvisation. As we experience each band member individually experiencing a mental breakdown, a collective consciousness emerges from the instantly undeniable vocals, a series of sharply pointed tirades against everything from chauvinistic individualism, empty sympathy, ineffective opposition, and pathetic hedonism, all delivered through the haze of amphetamine-induced psychosis. The world has left us with no adequate way to react to its slow, embarrassing, and arguably preventable self-destruction, and My Wife’s an Angel provides us with the most honest possible reception of these laughable responses.