M.V. Carbon and J. Gräf make noise that is slow, consumptive, andjello-thick and their method of ear-shattering is unique enough to makethem stand out among a sea of amateur feedback wankers. Keyboardsstretch and rattle like whale blubber waving in the wind and sonicwhines break the sound barrier in an attempt to reach light and breakit, too, but through all the chaos and unchecked sludge is that hint ofintention and arrangement that helps everything make sense. Metaluxmight have one foot in the out-of-control world of schizophrenic soundconstruction, but the other is firmly planted in the calm and coolrealm of careful preparation. After turning up their aggression theyconsider the variety they've presented, look it over like some hellishFrankenstein made from the bones of destroyed drum kits and nuclearguitars, and they craft it into rolling lines of synthetic bubbles andpurring sex kittens. Carbon and Gräf open up noise and reveal under itthe comedy of failing sounds; there are bloody llamas and pliantanimals to be found on this record. There's always a strange kind ofbeauty here that reminds me of why noise can be so great. Take theoverdriven guitar of "Splinter and Shimmer" for example: distortion,super-indulgence, and complete disregard for listener health has neversounded so lovely. The witch-like moan and screech of the vocals onthis track slip around the pure fucking animalistic drive of the guitarand the painful screech of electronics so perfectly, it's a surprisethat more individuals haven't tried this approach (it seems ripe fortheft and overuse). Metalux let it carry on for just long enough anddon't bother using it again—it's an addictive piece of songwriting thatonly increases with each listen. In other places the record is almostdanceable as drum machines pound away steady rhythms, alternatingbetween bass hits and persistent snare crunching. The noise that movesover it and the sometimes fascist ramblings of the vocalist create thekind of fear that only an epileptic thrust suddenly into a disco bashcould feel. "Airplane" and "Flexi-Armadillo" fit this bill well, butthere aren't just a few styles on this album. Nearly every song isunique and still Waiting for Armadillosticks together more cohesively than rock opera. "Rode West" soundslike it belongs in some world filled with secretly perverted clowns and"Mexico" might as well be put in every raver's CD player as a means ofterminally destroying their ability to dance and think. Both ofthem sound as though they were crafted from the same twisted brain andboth serve the greater purpose of lifting Waiting for Armadillo far above the usual onslaught of pummeling sound and into another dimension occupied only by itself. Read More
