His songs are too thrashy to register as 60s homage, too bubble-gummy to be mistaken for 70s stoner rock, and too sludgy to pass for hardcore punk. Still, in every Ty Segall song, one can detect a few frayed threads borrowed from each of these genres.
Another factor zooming Segall into the here-and-now is his prodigious streak, which has been an unintentional but fortuitous adaptation to the era of social media, where music arrives and vanishes from the cultural consciousness in the space of mere days, if not hours. It’s tough to forget him, because he always has a release on deck: an album, a 7”, or maybe he’s just playing drums and singing backup vocals on his friend’s record. Suddenly, without realizing it, the last three LPs you bought have Ty Segall’s name on the cover, or somewhere in the liners. Though, for better or worse, 2012 may mark a golden age for Segall’s workaholic bent. “Never again,” he says, laughing, when asked if he’s got another three records in the bag for next year.
─Aaron Leitko writing in Pitchfork about guitar shredder and prolific songwriter Ty Segall.
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