ATTENTION BLUNT SMOKERS AND BASS AFICIONADOS: Put down that spliff and take notice! Larvae has come to warp your minds and clutter your eardrums with some low-frequency sonics. Clocking in at an understated 46 minutes, Fashion Victim, the project's debut album, provides a somewhat noisy take on the bong-worthy dark urban sound (formerly known as illbient) produced by acts like Scorn, DJ Spooky, and Witchman. Taking equal parts Scott Herren and Mick Harris, "Refuse" opens this album with stuttering samples, bold bass tones, and head-nodding drum loops.
Desolation House
The debut release from this Italian artist is a fine CD of minimal,dark music constructed from electronic drones that is alluringly bleakfrom start to finish. From the beginning I'm transported below thesurface of some bustling city, the distant rumbling and grinding ofmachines and life filtered by miles of rock before it echoes through acavernous chamber. The sense of space is tangible; the sounds are coldand distant, contributing to the overall sense of isolation andloneliness, but the presentation is captivating. Though somewhat gloomyand definitely evocative of shadowy places, these wonderful sounds arefar from stifling. Layers upon layers of audio constantly shift andexpand, the steady wind-like howling becoming far-off wailing andreverberated clatter. In the third track the persistent noises take ona more musical character, with a glistening, almost organ-like tone,and the patient progression, slowly revealing beautiful new elementsonly to put them aside, make this a fascinating piece. "SpiritualDarkness" also features a great looped "melody" hidden underneath therecordings of dripping water and low rumbling. The concluding trackmixes in some tribal-sounding drumming over the drones for a different,but fitting, result. Although I find myself longing for somethinglighter and more open sounding by the album's end, I feel like I'vejust taken part in an amazing experience.
The debut release from this Italian artist is a fine CD of minimal,dark music constructed from electronic drones that is alluringly bleakfrom start to finish. From the beginning I'm transported below thesurface of some bustling city, the distant rumbling and grinding ofmachines and life filtered by miles of rock before it echoes through acavernous chamber. The sense of space is tangible; the sounds are coldand distant, contributing to the overall sense of isolation andloneliness, but the presentation is captivating. Though somewhat gloomyand definitely evocative of shadowy places, these wonderful sounds arefar from stifling. Layers upon layers of audio constantly shift andexpand, the steady wind-like howling becoming far-off wailing andreverberated clatter. In the third track the persistent noises take ona more musical character, with a glistening, almost organ-like tone,and the patient progression, slowly revealing beautiful new elementsonly to put them aside, make this a fascinating piece. "SpiritualDarkness" also features a great looped "melody" hidden underneath therecordings of dripping water and low rumbling. The concluding trackmixes in some tribal-sounding drumming over the drones for a different,but fitting, result. Although I find myself longing for somethinglighter and more open sounding by the album's end, I feel like I'vejust taken part in an amazing experience.samples:
Hymen
From meager beginnings can emerge potentially fantastic results. Assuch, Gridlock started out rather simply as a Skinny Puppy-influencedindustrial band, releasing their first album The Synthetic Formon the now defunct Pendragon label. Since that debut, however, the duoof Wells and Cadoo have moved their sound further and further away fromthat scene as well as that style. While never giving up an appreciationfor crunchy distorted drumwork, Gridlock has definately progressed fromthe inherent ugliness of that former sound, as displayed here on Formless,their most beautiful album to date. Many times a reviewer will throwthat term around carelessly (beautiful), but I'm not fucking aroundhere. The tracks that make up this album are lovingly unearthed bits ofoverdriven percussion fragments and processed digital signals from theland that Autechre forgot. Anyone who recalls the days when thataforementioned British duo were still creating marvelous musical worksof note (Incunabula and Amber, for example) will appreciate the damaged textures found on Formless(Check out the junkyard sonics of the opener "Pallid," or"Chronometaphor" for example.) Going further, "Displacement" borders onthe tribal, with its ritualistic rhythms supporting the contrastingcascades of violence and melody. A standout among the bunch, "Return"begins with fractured rhythms taking a subtle backseat to entrancingambient glimmers for the first two minutes, before a booming bass drumblasts through in true Gridlock sneak-attack fashion. On top of that,the inclusion of some breathy female vocals proved to be the realsurprise here, making a brief appearance as more of an instrument thana true human element. Recognizing that the end is near, Atomontageexudes desparation by crackling, beeping, roaring, and, inevitably,whimpering its way towards the inevitable closer, the lengthy and aptlynamed "Done Processing." Like most of Gridlock's albums, this oneproves difficult to interpret and enjoy if heard as individual songsinstead of as the urban apocalyptic soundtrack it really is. Equallydevastating and uplifting, Formless offers up a proposed future for post-industrial and experimental electronic music that demands to be heard.
From meager beginnings can emerge potentially fantastic results. Assuch, Gridlock started out rather simply as a Skinny Puppy-influencedindustrial band, releasing their first album The Synthetic Formon the now defunct Pendragon label. Since that debut, however, the duoof Wells and Cadoo have moved their sound further and further away fromthat scene as well as that style. While never giving up an appreciationfor crunchy distorted drumwork, Gridlock has definately progressed fromthe inherent ugliness of that former sound, as displayed here on Formless,their most beautiful album to date. Many times a reviewer will throwthat term around carelessly (beautiful), but I'm not fucking aroundhere. The tracks that make up this album are lovingly unearthed bits ofoverdriven percussion fragments and processed digital signals from theland that Autechre forgot. Anyone who recalls the days when thataforementioned British duo were still creating marvelous musical worksof note (Incunabula and Amber, for example) will appreciate the damaged textures found on Formless(Check out the junkyard sonics of the opener "Pallid," or"Chronometaphor" for example.) Going further, "Displacement" borders onthe tribal, with its ritualistic rhythms supporting the contrastingcascades of violence and melody. A standout among the bunch, "Return"begins with fractured rhythms taking a subtle backseat to entrancingambient glimmers for the first two minutes, before a booming bass drumblasts through in true Gridlock sneak-attack fashion. On top of that,the inclusion of some breathy female vocals proved to be the realsurprise here, making a brief appearance as more of an instrument thana true human element. Recognizing that the end is near, Atomontageexudes desparation by crackling, beeping, roaring, and, inevitably,whimpering its way towards the inevitable closer, the lengthy and aptlynamed "Done Processing." Like most of Gridlock's albums, this oneproves difficult to interpret and enjoy if heard as individual songsinstead of as the urban apocalyptic soundtrack it really is. Equallydevastating and uplifting, Formless offers up a proposed future for post-industrial and experimental electronic music that demands to be heard.samples:
Jetset
I've got to wonder sometimes why Mark Kozelek still tries at all.Always the bridesmaid and never the bride, his critically acclaimedalbums with Red House Painters never quite hit the commercial glorythat was almost guaranteed with that kind of press. Relegated to indiedarling, he's had quite his issues with record labels, but stillcontinued to churn out album after album of heartfelt and memorablesongs that leave an indelible mark felt long after the record isfinished playing through the speakers. After the turmoil surroundingthe release of Old RamonI would expect anyone to hang it up, or at least take some time offfrom it all. Perhaps that's what Sun Kil Moon is: Kozelek's hanging upof the Red House Painters for good or time off. Either way, theaesthetic has not changed much and that's fine by me. This debutrelease by the band is a phoenix rising from the ashes, proclaiming areign of glory that has potential to last eons. "Glenn Tipton" is acontinuation of the familiar acoustic Painters sound, with fancifullyrics about Sonny Lister and old movies. When the bass kicks in thewhole thing just gets lovely, evoking a gentle bouncing sway from eventhe tightest individual. Then the lyrics turn dark, about buryingvictims and digging through their pockets, but the performance is stillso honest and bear that the heart reaches out anyway, like when peoplesend love letters to prisoners. "Carry Me Ohio" is the same level ofstunning, a tale of not being able to love someone back and theemptiness that can sometimes come as a result, and Kozelek just shineson "Last Tide" and "Floating," which bleed together effortlessly.There's crunch, too, in "Lily and Parrots" and "Salvador Sanchez," alldistortion in guitar and vocals that could never detract. The epic "DukKoo Kim" is the album's keynote address, though, which some may haveheard but not in this fourteen-minute incarnation that buries itself ineffects and changes and some gorgeous guitar work mixed in withmandolin and xylophones. With every record, Kozelek seems to get moreand more mired in his own psyche, exploring different synapses andpockets of memories to dredge up just the right mixture. "PanchoVilla," an acoustic revisiting of "Salvador Sanchez," shows thisexploration and experimentation wonderfully, as the meaning of the songcompleting changes with the new presentation and vocal inflection. Thisranks up there as my favorite record of Kozelek's, surpassing anyPainters work, and it's for this reason that I hope Sun Kil Moon sticksaround for awhile, even if just for a few tracks here and there. It'sbeen worth the wait.
I've got to wonder sometimes why Mark Kozelek still tries at all.Always the bridesmaid and never the bride, his critically acclaimedalbums with Red House Painters never quite hit the commercial glorythat was almost guaranteed with that kind of press. Relegated to indiedarling, he's had quite his issues with record labels, but stillcontinued to churn out album after album of heartfelt and memorablesongs that leave an indelible mark felt long after the record isfinished playing through the speakers. After the turmoil surroundingthe release of Old RamonI would expect anyone to hang it up, or at least take some time offfrom it all. Perhaps that's what Sun Kil Moon is: Kozelek's hanging upof the Red House Painters for good or time off. Either way, theaesthetic has not changed much and that's fine by me. This debutrelease by the band is a phoenix rising from the ashes, proclaiming areign of glory that has potential to last eons. "Glenn Tipton" is acontinuation of the familiar acoustic Painters sound, with fancifullyrics about Sonny Lister and old movies. When the bass kicks in thewhole thing just gets lovely, evoking a gentle bouncing sway from eventhe tightest individual. Then the lyrics turn dark, about buryingvictims and digging through their pockets, but the performance is stillso honest and bear that the heart reaches out anyway, like when peoplesend love letters to prisoners. "Carry Me Ohio" is the same level ofstunning, a tale of not being able to love someone back and theemptiness that can sometimes come as a result, and Kozelek just shineson "Last Tide" and "Floating," which bleed together effortlessly.There's crunch, too, in "Lily and Parrots" and "Salvador Sanchez," alldistortion in guitar and vocals that could never detract. The epic "DukKoo Kim" is the album's keynote address, though, which some may haveheard but not in this fourteen-minute incarnation that buries itself ineffects and changes and some gorgeous guitar work mixed in withmandolin and xylophones. With every record, Kozelek seems to get moreand more mired in his own psyche, exploring different synapses andpockets of memories to dredge up just the right mixture. "PanchoVilla," an acoustic revisiting of "Salvador Sanchez," shows thisexploration and experimentation wonderfully, as the meaning of the songcompleting changes with the new presentation and vocal inflection. Thisranks up there as my favorite record of Kozelek's, surpassing anyPainters work, and it's for this reason that I hope Sun Kil Moon sticksaround for awhile, even if just for a few tracks here and there. It'sbeen worth the wait.samples:
Tzadik
Who knew that getting rid of Sachiko M's piercing sine waves and addinga percussionist to the group could actually result in an album that's less catchy than the last one? That's not to say that Peek-Ara-Boois bad, because it definitely isn't, but beyond the first track (thinkgarage rock guitar line played on koto), there isn't a lot on the discthat will provoke huge idiot grins. What is found is a quiet collectionof lullabies, twangy folk songs, clattering percussion, and Haco'spiercing sine waves, which are really only distinguishable from SachikoM's in that they're generally busier. For such an odd mix ofingredients, the recipe turns out well more often than not: some willthink the sounds occupy a space a bit too close to Enya/LoreenaMcKennitt/Kim Robertson territory, but then it shifts out of dreamlandand into loud-tuneless-improv gear for a while, soiling the pants ofthe Quinlan Road crowd in the process. It's not a particularly cohesivealbum by any means (writing credits are all over the map, with sometracks being credited to the group as a whole and others to individualmembers, and it shows... er... sounds... whatever...), but as aninteresting grab-bag of sounds, it was worth my fourteen bucks.
Who knew that getting rid of Sachiko M's piercing sine waves and addinga percussionist to the group could actually result in an album that's less catchy than the last one? That's not to say that Peek-Ara-Boois bad, because it definitely isn't, but beyond the first track (thinkgarage rock guitar line played on koto), there isn't a lot on the discthat will provoke huge idiot grins. What is found is a quiet collectionof lullabies, twangy folk songs, clattering percussion, and Haco'spiercing sine waves, which are really only distinguishable from SachikoM's in that they're generally busier. For such an odd mix ofingredients, the recipe turns out well more often than not: some willthink the sounds occupy a space a bit too close to Enya/LoreenaMcKennitt/Kim Robertson territory, but then it shifts out of dreamlandand into loud-tuneless-improv gear for a while, soiling the pants ofthe Quinlan Road crowd in the process. It's not a particularly cohesivealbum by any means (writing credits are all over the map, with sometracks being credited to the group as a whole and others to individualmembers, and it shows... er... sounds... whatever...), but as aninteresting grab-bag of sounds, it was worth my fourteen bucks. samples:
Even Stilte Records
A friend of mine used to claim that a few CDs in his collection"contain every frequency." Whether this somewhat meaningless statementwas intended as an endorsement of quality was never clear; perhaps theywere just useful for testing audio equipment. This CD certainly fitsthat category, with the duo of Japanese musicians playing over 20instruments, exploring improvised, outer-space textures and abstractmelodies blanketed under shimmering waves of power electronics. Theoccasionally harsh assault isn't surprising given Guilty Connector'scollaborations with the likes of MSBR, but in the context of this duo,the noise serves as a backdrop and counterpoint to Tabata's guitar andsynthesizer rather than the brutal focal point. Though their aestheticis similar to fellow psychedelic groups like Acid Mothers Temple, thisCD steers clear of the over-the-top rock freakout, instead exploringprimarily rhythmless, atmospheric pieces more rooted in freeimprovisation and noise. Tabata does throw in some backward guitarriffing on "Le Schiaue Esistono Ancora," amid the continuous clatter ofcymbals that grow progressively more distorted; it's a mysteriouslyemotive and vaguely Eastern sounding track. Another standout is "Tempusest quaedam pars aeternitatis," which begins with a heavily processedguitar sound that blends perfectly with the filtered electronic noiseas it is delayed and continues ringing. It's certainly not easylistening, but there's so much going on throughout this disc, bothabove and below the surface, that it's definitely interesting. Thepersonalities and styles of the two players fit well together makingthis an excellent recording.
A friend of mine used to claim that a few CDs in his collection"contain every frequency." Whether this somewhat meaningless statementwas intended as an endorsement of quality was never clear; perhaps theywere just useful for testing audio equipment. This CD certainly fitsthat category, with the duo of Japanese musicians playing over 20instruments, exploring improvised, outer-space textures and abstractmelodies blanketed under shimmering waves of power electronics. Theoccasionally harsh assault isn't surprising given Guilty Connector'scollaborations with the likes of MSBR, but in the context of this duo,the noise serves as a backdrop and counterpoint to Tabata's guitar andsynthesizer rather than the brutal focal point. Though their aestheticis similar to fellow psychedelic groups like Acid Mothers Temple, thisCD steers clear of the over-the-top rock freakout, instead exploringprimarily rhythmless, atmospheric pieces more rooted in freeimprovisation and noise. Tabata does throw in some backward guitarriffing on "Le Schiaue Esistono Ancora," amid the continuous clatter ofcymbals that grow progressively more distorted; it's a mysteriouslyemotive and vaguely Eastern sounding track. Another standout is "Tempusest quaedam pars aeternitatis," which begins with a heavily processedguitar sound that blends perfectly with the filtered electronic noiseas it is delayed and continues ringing. It's certainly not easylistening, but there's so much going on throughout this disc, bothabove and below the surface, that it's definitely interesting. Thepersonalities and styles of the two players fit well together makingthis an excellent recording. samples:
Beta-lactam Ring
Having heard a bit about this band in the positive, I was expectingsomething exciting and spaced-out. I certainly received the second halfof that deal with this disc, but whether or not it's exciting dependsentirely on tolerance for strange vocals. Pacalirte Sorban Cumanosfeatures a duo of guitarists that weave spiral nausea out of thin air,a fairly straightforward but pounding drummer, and the most annoyingsinger I think I've ever heard. Perhaps within a different context thelyrics and delivery would somehow fit and make for a mind-bending ride,but the chanting and headless meander of half-words simply don't workwith the tuneless and perpetual descent that the guitars create. Casein point: "7 Apoloca Baluba" is a childlike combo of simple chordstrumming, what could be a flute but is actually a very cleverly playedguitar, and plodding drums. The effect is enchanting as long as thosemoans and groans coming from the singer are ignored. They sound as ifthey don't belong or are inserted at a later time without the singereven listening to what was composed prior to his contribution. "TriloPampeho" would be a hellish delivery of tribal drumming and machinerydrone, but again the vocals (which sound as if they are trying toimitate a certain song from The Police) cut into the mix and end upmaking everything wash away in a feeling of confusion and foolery."Fincoll (que norar)" is the one place where the singer truly standsout and delivers a performance worth checking out. It sounds as thoughit may all be coming from a dilapidated church in the middle of adesert: very faint organ wanders away in the background while themumbling and passion-esque warble of the vocalists (invoking "AveMaria" here and there?) raise to the sky in a stream of smoke andsizzling ash. Some of the cosmic sounds pulled out of the guitars forthis record are truly amazing. It's certainly a unique release, butthose vocals need to fit into the mix: when they do, it soundsoutstanding, but otherwise it's a mess that's difficult to sit through.
Having heard a bit about this band in the positive, I was expectingsomething exciting and spaced-out. I certainly received the second halfof that deal with this disc, but whether or not it's exciting dependsentirely on tolerance for strange vocals. Pacalirte Sorban Cumanosfeatures a duo of guitarists that weave spiral nausea out of thin air,a fairly straightforward but pounding drummer, and the most annoyingsinger I think I've ever heard. Perhaps within a different context thelyrics and delivery would somehow fit and make for a mind-bending ride,but the chanting and headless meander of half-words simply don't workwith the tuneless and perpetual descent that the guitars create. Casein point: "7 Apoloca Baluba" is a childlike combo of simple chordstrumming, what could be a flute but is actually a very cleverly playedguitar, and plodding drums. The effect is enchanting as long as thosemoans and groans coming from the singer are ignored. They sound as ifthey don't belong or are inserted at a later time without the singereven listening to what was composed prior to his contribution. "TriloPampeho" would be a hellish delivery of tribal drumming and machinerydrone, but again the vocals (which sound as if they are trying toimitate a certain song from The Police) cut into the mix and end upmaking everything wash away in a feeling of confusion and foolery."Fincoll (que norar)" is the one place where the singer truly standsout and delivers a performance worth checking out. It sounds as thoughit may all be coming from a dilapidated church in the middle of adesert: very faint organ wanders away in the background while themumbling and passion-esque warble of the vocalists (invoking "AveMaria" here and there?) raise to the sky in a stream of smoke andsizzling ash. Some of the cosmic sounds pulled out of the guitars forthis record are truly amazing. It's certainly a unique release, butthose vocals need to fit into the mix: when they do, it soundsoutstanding, but otherwise it's a mess that's difficult to sit through. samples:
Lo-fi guitar feedback, monotone lyrical chatter, and bland instrumental (amateur at best) cycles do not make for a good record. As best as I can tell, Doreen Kirchner and Wayne Garcia really want to be as hip as they can be; instead they end up sounding like a couple of confused kids with nothing to sing about and no melody to drive their music forward. I don't need a melody to be interested in the music, but AM 11 doesn't have anything going for it otherwise.
Lexicon Devil
With the homemade aesthetic as marketable as ever, and luminaries of the cassette noise underground priming for the next JANEmagazine feature, it's a surprise the 80's industro-punker annals havenot yet been thoroughly stormed for reissue. Digitizing the past can befun and will sometimes produce a posthumous legend, but all too oftenthe process does nothing more than make undeserving, even undesiringheroes of the old, and uninspired imitators of the young. At presentit's hard for me to listen to a Wolf Eyes record without hearing aco-worker rattle on about the glory days of SPK, and my enjoying SPKgets complicated by a guard against someone else's glamorization. Mysalvation comes with reissues that can show me "new" things, like alost inspiration or the missing link in the evolution of a style, butwith an added suspension of recognition. In other words, the best musicmust allow me to lose myself, must first lead me astray, or wipe theslate clean, before revealing its true character. Luckily, this BoyDirt Car reissue, containing the group's best full length and theirside to a split with fellow Milwaukians F/i, is forged of such raresteel. Wintershows me a time when bands playing indulgent static dirges or whistlingthrough vocal effects formed just another dark corner of the localhardcore scene, a time when anyone could plug in a broken keyboard,start mumbling about the highway at night, and become genius for a day.Formed from a couple members of Die Kreuzen and some like-minded,Branca-inspired youths, Boy Dirt Car was fertile ground for a marriageof punk and industrial philosophies, coming to climax in '86-'87 withthese two releases. The unfortunately-named band took its blueprintfrom the slowed-down doom punk of bands like Flipper, shattering it toinclude the open spaces and electrified edges of early Neubauten. Oneof the most striking qualities of the music is how little the grouprelies on anything more than guitars to construct their elaboratetapestries of noise. Songs like "Forms Forced Surrender" and the brutaltitle track show evidence of either several moments of collectivebrilliance, or several dozen painstaking overdubs. Elsewhere, tracksrange from the Null-ian meltdown of "Invisible Man" to the opening"Smear," a delicate wound of crisp delay, amp buzz, and metallicpercussion. While the homemade vibe exists throughout, it neverencourages a preoccupation with process, instead reinforcing a sense ofyouthful exuberance in the music. Listening to Winter, thisexuberance and a kind of punk-ist abandon are hard to ignore, makingthe few moments of lyrical cheese, bad poetry, and guitar wank easy toswallow. As with any great punk band, clich? and indulgences soonbecome part of Boy Dirt Car's rather addictive appeal, and ultimatelythese humorous missteps help to form more of an accessible foundationfor the group's frequent excursions into righteous, blistering noise.
With the homemade aesthetic as marketable as ever, and luminaries of the cassette noise underground priming for the next JANEmagazine feature, it's a surprise the 80's industro-punker annals havenot yet been thoroughly stormed for reissue. Digitizing the past can befun and will sometimes produce a posthumous legend, but all too oftenthe process does nothing more than make undeserving, even undesiringheroes of the old, and uninspired imitators of the young. At presentit's hard for me to listen to a Wolf Eyes record without hearing aco-worker rattle on about the glory days of SPK, and my enjoying SPKgets complicated by a guard against someone else's glamorization. Mysalvation comes with reissues that can show me "new" things, like alost inspiration or the missing link in the evolution of a style, butwith an added suspension of recognition. In other words, the best musicmust allow me to lose myself, must first lead me astray, or wipe theslate clean, before revealing its true character. Luckily, this BoyDirt Car reissue, containing the group's best full length and theirside to a split with fellow Milwaukians F/i, is forged of such raresteel. Wintershows me a time when bands playing indulgent static dirges or whistlingthrough vocal effects formed just another dark corner of the localhardcore scene, a time when anyone could plug in a broken keyboard,start mumbling about the highway at night, and become genius for a day.Formed from a couple members of Die Kreuzen and some like-minded,Branca-inspired youths, Boy Dirt Car was fertile ground for a marriageof punk and industrial philosophies, coming to climax in '86-'87 withthese two releases. The unfortunately-named band took its blueprintfrom the slowed-down doom punk of bands like Flipper, shattering it toinclude the open spaces and electrified edges of early Neubauten. Oneof the most striking qualities of the music is how little the grouprelies on anything more than guitars to construct their elaboratetapestries of noise. Songs like "Forms Forced Surrender" and the brutaltitle track show evidence of either several moments of collectivebrilliance, or several dozen painstaking overdubs. Elsewhere, tracksrange from the Null-ian meltdown of "Invisible Man" to the opening"Smear," a delicate wound of crisp delay, amp buzz, and metallicpercussion. While the homemade vibe exists throughout, it neverencourages a preoccupation with process, instead reinforcing a sense ofyouthful exuberance in the music. Listening to Winter, thisexuberance and a kind of punk-ist abandon are hard to ignore, makingthe few moments of lyrical cheese, bad poetry, and guitar wank easy toswallow. As with any great punk band, clich? and indulgences soonbecome part of Boy Dirt Car's rather addictive appeal, and ultimatelythese humorous missteps help to form more of an accessible foundationfor the group's frequent excursions into righteous, blistering noise.
City Centre Offices
Sometimes being straightforward and relaxed is the best thing amusician can do. Forget all that maniacal drum programming, ridiculoussound sequencing, and use of hyper samples featuring chipmunks oncocaine: let melancholia sweep up and over the horizon like a silkblanket and drown the world in night. Boy Robot does just that; theirexcellent song-writing combined with slick rhythms and just the rightamount of surprise makes Glamorizing Corporate Lifestylea hypnotic and delectable trip. Burning keyboards rebound and stretchacross space under the influence of drifting or lurching melodies thathum and soar slightly out of reach. Imperial horns sound just beyondthe next hill and the march of toy soldiers breaking the edge of sightsound monstrous as the clutter of sound swarms over the hills. Butthese soldiers aren't out to destroy; "Don't Panic It's Organic" is abouncey little piece more than a hounds-from-the-gates-of-hell wave ofdoom. The excellent melodies buried and transformed under reverb andecho mesh into each other and give birth to a firey piece ofdance-alicious pyschadelia that neither could have produced alone. BoyRobot doesn't always need a solid beat to sound wonderful, though."Loving You Makes Me Nervous" sounds like a children's junkyard full ofdefunct jack-in-the-boxes, miniature train sets, and plastic flutes.Yet, it's so very simple. Nothing here is overdone, there's nothingoutrageous taking place: melodies fade in and out of eachother, rhythmschug along, and deep, sensuous tunes are born out of simple and naturalmovements of sound. It's the use and choice of sound that makes adifference; bells, electronic xylophones, rubber band bass slaps, andthe cranking of gears all blend into eachother effortlessly; it's allas gentle as a taking a slow breath. Beginning with the welcoming"Likely Silly and Waterfull," progressing through the cyber-epic of"Old Habits Die Hard," and ending with the ghost-house story of "WhenBroken Consider It Sold," Glamorizing Corporate Lifestyle knows no boundary and sinks right into my bones. Everything should be so playful and resplendent as this.
Sometimes being straightforward and relaxed is the best thing amusician can do. Forget all that maniacal drum programming, ridiculoussound sequencing, and use of hyper samples featuring chipmunks oncocaine: let melancholia sweep up and over the horizon like a silkblanket and drown the world in night. Boy Robot does just that; theirexcellent song-writing combined with slick rhythms and just the rightamount of surprise makes Glamorizing Corporate Lifestylea hypnotic and delectable trip. Burning keyboards rebound and stretchacross space under the influence of drifting or lurching melodies thathum and soar slightly out of reach. Imperial horns sound just beyondthe next hill and the march of toy soldiers breaking the edge of sightsound monstrous as the clutter of sound swarms over the hills. Butthese soldiers aren't out to destroy; "Don't Panic It's Organic" is abouncey little piece more than a hounds-from-the-gates-of-hell wave ofdoom. The excellent melodies buried and transformed under reverb andecho mesh into each other and give birth to a firey piece ofdance-alicious pyschadelia that neither could have produced alone. BoyRobot doesn't always need a solid beat to sound wonderful, though."Loving You Makes Me Nervous" sounds like a children's junkyard full ofdefunct jack-in-the-boxes, miniature train sets, and plastic flutes.Yet, it's so very simple. Nothing here is overdone, there's nothingoutrageous taking place: melodies fade in and out of eachother, rhythmschug along, and deep, sensuous tunes are born out of simple and naturalmovements of sound. It's the use and choice of sound that makes adifference; bells, electronic xylophones, rubber band bass slaps, andthe cranking of gears all blend into eachother effortlessly; it's allas gentle as a taking a slow breath. Beginning with the welcoming"Likely Silly and Waterfull," progressing through the cyber-epic of"Old Habits Die Hard," and ending with the ghost-house story of "WhenBroken Consider It Sold," Glamorizing Corporate Lifestyle knows no boundary and sinks right into my bones. Everything should be so playful and resplendent as this.
