Whatever happens on their next record, at least Arcade Fire have a history of staying true to themselves. But Butler has always been optimistic enough to inject a little hope into bleak proclamations like “(Antichrist Television Blues),” so their worldview might simply shift toward the former instead of changing entirely. It remains to be seen (hopefully not for much longer) whether that perspective will be altered now that he and Chassagne wear the rose-colored glasses of new parenthood.
For Butler, kids - whether digging tunnels in the snow, learning how to drive, or observing their parents - are like canaries in a coal mine for the world’s greater ills. The lasting effects of childhood have been one of Arcade Fire’s central concerns since the band recorded its first demos in Montreal in 2001. And that songwriting husband-and-wife duo Win Butler and Régine Chassagne had a baby boy, but that’s a different story. Few other details have been released about the follow-up to 2010’s Grammy Award-winning The Suburbs except that it’s due sometime this year and James Murphy is the producer. (You're on fire) That's how you know you're on a roll 'Cause when you're hot it's like you're burning up everyone else's cold (You're on fire) Man, I'm so fuckin' sick I got ambulances pullin' me over and shit (You're on fire) You need to stop, drop, and roll 'Cause when you say the shit to get the whole hip-hop shop to blow (You're on fire) Yeah (You're on fire) Yuh I just put a bullshit hook in between two long-ass verses If you mistook this for a song, look, this ain't a song It's a warning to Brooke Hogan and David Cook That the crook just took over, so book Run as fast as you can, stop writing and kill it I'm lightning in a skillet, you're a fuckin' flash in the pan I pop up, you bitches scatter like hot grease splashing a fan Mr.Over Memorial Day weekend, it was breathlessly announced that Arcade Fire were in the process of mixing their new album.
(Haha, yeah, haha) You know, critics, man Critics never got nothin' nice to say, man You know, the one thing I notice about critics, man Is critics never ask me how my day went Well, I'ma tell 'em Augh, yesterday my dog died I hog tied a ho, tied her in a bow Said: "Next time you blog, try to spit a flow." You wanna criticize, dog? Try a little mo' I'm so tired of this I could blow, fire in the hole I'm fired up, so fire up the lighter and the dro Better hold on a little tighter, here I go Flows tighter, hot-headed as Ghost Rider Cold-hearted as Spider-Man throwing a spider in the snow So you better get lower than Flo Rida Inside of a lowrider with no tires, in a hole Why am I like this? Why is winter cold? Why is it when I talk I'm so biased to the hoes? Listen, dog, Christmas is off, this is as soft as it gets This isn't golf, this is a blistering assault Those are your wounds, this is the salt, so get lost Shit, dissin' me is just like pissin' off the Wizard of Oz Wrap a lizard in gauze Beat you in the jaws with it, grab the scissors and saws And cut out your livers, gizzards, and balls Throw you in the middle of the ocean in a blizzard with Jaws So sip piss like sizzurp through a straw Then describe how it tasted like dessert to us all Got the gall to make Chris piss in his drawers Tickle him, go to his grave, skip him, and visit his dog