the damp cloy of too much whateveritwas spreading so-un-sun-like across the murky puddle of morning. and then the rain. the rain’s a rhythm. everything’s a rhythm. there’s always rain. beating down like i’m an errant child. the crunch of buildings hangs over everything like a funeral morning…
this record’s all gunmetal greys and graffitied browns. a score for a film of some languishing city i’m walking, that welcomes me into its squat futuro folds with near pornographic delight.
carpenteresque. exploring claustrophobic nooks and crannies. a swelling that neither swells nor shrinks, just with chronological certainty, lurches precisely from track to track.
so swampy tendrils snake out into ears. dustbowl rattle of percussion and a mess of voice. then a mild whump kicks in and builds. a fizz of strings.
surf and destroy, and that fistful of punk rock connotations, rustles up a smidge of chrome, the ponderous martial machine psych employed during edge and creed’s more reigned in moments.
from this to a kosmische schwhirl, all dread and pulse. something dubby, reedy, huffs through. melodies that while not quite rough certainly have a serrated edge. a percussive knot that’s part ebm, part chicago acid, part albini.
aggressive. but controlled. nothing spirals out or unravels. it’s inexorable. a coil / uncoil bounce, and buried, layered. something industrial: a hiss, a squall, a silence, darting abuxt the 303 blarps.
all very optimo: pulsing twitchy no-wave wonk. spooked monochrome techno.
it’s certainly something whatever it is.
