Archive for February, 2017

SOFA – SOFA553 – 24th February 2017

Christopher Nosnibor

The album’s title is a nod to a Polish science fiction film from 1988 which has an unusual story behind its production and eventual, much-delayed release. Also in the mix of influences is the book Moon Dust by Andrew Smith, which discusses the way in which each of the Apollo astronauts dealt with their experiences, as well as how the space programme was closed down by the Nixon administration.

As you might reasonably expect, then, On the Silver Globe is a lunar / space-themed work, and one which does, albeit in in less than conventional manifestations, incorporate many common elements of ambient music which evoke all things ‘spacey’. By which, I mean it’s a reverby, synthy, cinematic work which forges a sense of abstract ‘otherness’. And so, ladies and gentleman, listening to On the Silver Globe we really do feel as if we are floating in space, above the earth and free from all of its groundedness, its gravity, its noise, the claustrophobic clamour of life in the 21st Century.

Slow, deliberate hums hover and hang. Distant static swells in density and intensity, growing to a thick rumble of distortion that slithers menacingly around the cranium. The dominant feature of the first of these five numbered tracks is the ebb and slow, easy, flow: if seemingly arbitrarily-timed, the rise and fall, the swell and decline, the attack and decay all occur in a fluid and natural-feeling way.

For a moment, you’re removed from everything. The horrors of Trump’s first month in presidency – that terrifying train-wreck of bullshit and bravado, the violent social division – and never mind the horrors of Brexit (whatever that may yet mean as the government continue to push in increasingly sadistic, inhumane bills by the back door behind the smokescreen of confusion and bickering – all diminish as you push out beyond the atmosphere, into another realm entirely. Is this how life could be? Perhaps now, more than ever, a life off earth has the greatest appeal. A new colony, a fresh start. Of course, it is all a dream, but one which Kim Myhr and Lasse Marhaup articulate magnificently through the medium of sound.

A quavering note rings out across time while a whupping thrum chops at the airless atmosphere. Scrunching crackles, whistles, bleeps and pops disturb the surface of an ever-shifting kaleidoscopic latticework of sound. The fourth track engages more directly with conventional sci-fi tropes, while throwing in blasting engines and ominous oscillations and the roaring swarm of a nuclear wind.

For all the slowness, the evolutionary pace of the compositions, in terms of their end-to-end transition, there are seismic changes and a vast textural expanse explored in microcosmic detail on each of the five pieces.

 

We love a scuzzy, messed-up, lo-fi, post-punk, no-wave racket here at Aural Aggro. There’s no shortage of bands around who fit the bill, but the email that alerted us to the existence of London trio Girls in Synthesis, and the imminent release of their debut single, double A-side ‘The Mound / Disappear’ (set for release on March 17th) made our day.

Listen here and you’ll easily get why:

Live dates:

Thursday 16th March: The Lock Tavern – London, UK
Saturday 25th March: Deptford Vinyl instore – London, UK

You’re here. YOu’ve probably deduced that we’re in psychedelic rock territory here. Sun Abduction surfaced in 2015 in Brooklyn with the release of their autonomous self titled EP. Heavily involved in the NYC underground psychedelic scene, Sun Abduction are back with two new singles – or, indeed, a digital double A-side, if you like – with ‘Acid Pyramid / Pale Rider’ ahead of a nine-date US string and to introduce their debut LP.

You can watch the video for ‘Acid Pyramid’ here, and the tour dates are below for those fortunate enough to live on the US west coast.

 

US WEST COAST TOUR DATES:

2/16 Seattle @ Victory Lounge

w/ Grey Waves, Moon Temple, D-497

2/17 Olympia @ Le Voyeur

w/ Molten Salt, Viking State Country

2/18 Tacoma @ The New Frontier

w/ Ssnackss, Mr. Motorcycle, Grey Waves, Blotters

2/19 Portland @ Dacha

w/ Dim Wit + 1tba

2/20 Arcata @ Blondies

w/ tba

2/21 Oakland @ The Stork

w/ Bloody Waters, Maisy goes to 711

2/24 Los Angeles @ Lot 1 Cafe

w/ King Tree & The Earth mothers, Draculamb, Jenson Gore

2/25 Los Angeles @ Gnarburger (5pm)

w/ Exbats

Christopher Nosnibor

It’s a cold, wet, February night in York. The wind is howling and the air is bitter. It’s not much warmer in The Crescent, despite a respectable turnout for this incredibly good value five-band extravaganza hosted by Leeds promoters and label Come Play With Me (and while I’ve never asked or otherwise bothered to research, I’ve always assumed the name is taken from the 1992 Single by Leeds indie stalwarts The Wedding Present, rather than the 1977 sex-comedy movie).

Perhaps it’s because they play so frequently in and around York that I often pass up on seeing Bull play. As a consequence, I tend to forget just how good they are, and often feel as if I’m, discovering them anew when I do see them. Their breezy US alternative sound, which hints at Dinosaur Jr and Pavement is laced with a distinctly Northern attitude, and they’ve got a real knack for a nifty pop song. They make for an uplifting start to proceedings.

The ubiquitous and multi-talented local stalwart Danny Barton features among the lineup of three-piece Sewage Farm, in capacity of bassist. Their post-grunge style is a sort of hybrid of US alt rock and 60s pop: more New York than Old York. With nods to Sonic Youth, but equally, Weezer, they’re good fun and make a dense noise for just three people.

Looking around the venue, I observe a number of long coats and above-the-ankle trousers. It’s starting to look like 1984, while on stage it sounds like it’s 1994. Time is warping, history is bending in on itself. Clearly, I need more beer. While I’m at the bar, The Jesus and Mary Chain and Slowdive pour from the PA, setting the tone nicely for the next act.

While they’re setting up, I chat briefly to Adam Weikert, drummer with Her Name is Calla. I waffle a load of bollocks, and as he heads off to get warm and grab a beverage, I realise just how unbelievably fucking tired I am. Maybe if I drink enough beer I’ll perk up, or otherwise fall asleep at the table I’m sitting at to make notes between bands. Perhaps I’ll simply care less, and also develop a much-needed beer-coat.

Team Picture describe themselves as ‘One part post-punk, two parts fuzz’, and having been impressed by their single cut released by CPWM the night before, I was keen to check them live. Biographical details about the Leeds act is scant, and despite the positioning of old-school cathode ray tube television sets around the stage and the female singer being one of the hyper-retro bods I’d clocked, giving an air of hypermodernism of a vintage circa 1979, they’re really not an image band. They are, however, an exceptionally strong live act. The six-piece forge a layered sound that oozes tension: the monotone dual vocals and fractal guitars trickle brittle over strolling basslines and taut drums. The songs are magnificently composed and executed. Atmospheric segments blow out into expansive passages propelled by motoric rhythms. I’m totally sold: it’s a cert that this is going to be a band who are on an upward trajectory and 2017 could be a big year for them.

Team Picture

Team Picture

I’m still freezing my tits off, tired, and feeling disconnected and out of sorts, so I buy a third beer: surely an Old Peculier will unthaw my toes at least. The barmaid throws a friendly smile as she hands me my change. Inexplicably, I feel hopeless and empty, and now, I’m without a seat, as the girl who stood right at my elbow during Team Picture’s set, despite the venue being only a third full is now sitting with her mate at the table I was at previously. She looks vaguely familiar, but I’m not about to embarrass myself by attempting conversation. Perhaps it’s the chilly post-punk vibes lingering in the air spurring my existentialism; perhaps not. Regardless, I don’t go to gigs to socialise.

It’s a relief when Halo Blind begin their set. Another York band featuring another ubiquitous face on bass, this time in the form of former Seahorse Stuart Fletcher (currently rocking a look that says he wants to be Tom Hardy), they’re classic exemplars of post-millennium neo-prog, and they’re seriously good at it. Having just released their second album, Occupying Forces, they showcase an evolving, expansive sound. Layered, dynamic, melodic and harmony-soaked songs, rich in atmosphere and calling to mind the likes of Oceansize and Anathema, define their set. They explore dynamics fearlessly, building some sustained crescendos and executing them with admirable precision. During ‘Downpour’, I find myself drawing parallels with ‘Pictures of a Bleeding Boy’ by The God Machine. But if a band’s worst crime is betraying echoes of The God Machine, then you know they’re a band worth hearing.

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Halo Blind

Her Name is Calla: another tour, another lineup. Sophie Green is out (a shame, as she’s an awesome presence), making way for a return for Anja Madhvani (which is cool, because she’s a superb player). And that bearded guy at the back, manning a bank of electronics and hoisting a trombone: is that really departed fonder Thom Corah? Yes, yes it is, and they open up a tempestuous set with the rarely-aired single-only track ‘A Moment of Clarity’. I may be in a minority, but it’s one of my favourite Her Name is Calla songs, and as Tom Morris pushes his voice to the limit with the cry of ‘the crunch / is the sound / of a human spirit breaking’ as the band erupt around him, it’s a powerful and emotive moment.

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Her Name is Calla

The band play a varied set with intensity and vigour. Quiet and melancholy, ‘Pour More Oil’ is delicate and moving; ‘Meridian Arc’ brings an insistent throb, vlume and tension in spades. Tiernan Welsh’s bass coms to the fore and his complete immersion in the songs is compelling.

They close the set with ‘New England’. I stopped taking notes, beyond scribbling ‘fucking yes’ in a barely decipherable scrawl. One of the highlights of The Heritage¸ this is precisely the kind of slow-building, explosive epic that made the band their name, and to see them thrash wildly, with Tom gnawing his guitar strings with his teeth amidst a tumult of ever-swelling noise, is an experience that’s something special. There is no encore: there doesn’t need to be. There is nowhere to go from here: an awesome finale to an awesome night.

The Helen Scarsdale Agency – HMS040 – 2nd December 2016

Christopher Nosnibor

My first encounter with the work of Jim Haynes (the musician, not the writer who rose to a degree of cult prominence in the 1960s) came when The Decline Effect landed with me in 2011. Haynes’ territory is the dark, the ambient, the subterranean, but Throttle and Calibration is an altogether harsher work, which emerged from Haynes’ 2015 residency at MoKS in Estonia, where he would collaborate with and contribute to Simon Whetham’s Active Crossover series.

As the blub accompanying the release on the label’s website explains, ‘Throttle and Calibration is the first in a series of albums that find Haynes digging through the Active Crossover archive and grotesquely exaggerating the details into exploded compositions of volatile dynamics, nerve-exposed dissonance, caustic shortwave signal abuse, and a considerable amount of scarred metal. Marked as one of the more discordant works to date in Haynes’ career, Throttle and Calibration finds company near the atonal compositions from Hermann Nitsch and the sour, industrial collages that pock the Nurse With Wound catalogue. Previously released digitally on Crónica, Throttle & Calibration is fleshed out with an additional 20 minutes of material.’ This time around, the augmented digital release is also accompanied by a cassette edition. But, sadly, no vinyl, and no CD. Sadly because

As the blurb which accompanies the release intimates, discordant is it, and Throttle and Calibration does, most certainly, slot into the space where industrial and avant-garde intersect, and this reissue, expanded to eight tracks from the original five, is an essential work within its field. The album finds Haynes in exploratory mode, and he delves deep into the granular elements of sound over the course of this challenging work.

A long, buffeting rumble, like a distant train or the sound of wind on a mountain-top (if there is no-one there to hear it, does the wind still roar around the rocks?) is the first sound. The harrowing bleakness is but short-lived. Explosive blasts of noise rip and tear like detonations, atmosphere and ear-shredding eruptions. Small sonic ruptures are rendered at such volume and intensity as to inflict sensory and psychological.

What exactly is this? The Arctic wind ripping through an empty water tower? Or the apocalypse? It could be either, and may be both. It’s disorientating as well as full-on. Throttle & Calibration is an album which places sound under the microscope, so to speak. It’s not microtonal, but it is microcosmic, at least on the one hand. But in placing its focus on a small corner of the scene, Haynes then blows it up to A3 and zooms in 500%. The effect is terrifying, bewildering, intense, and the results are immense. In Haynes’ hands, mundane sounds are reforged and take on sinister dimensions. His addressing them from alternative perspectives – up close, amplified – is the key to building a new understanding.

A quiet rattle is annihilated by a roar which melts all definition into a whirling multitextural aural vortex in ‘Tabula Rasa’, and over the course of the album, Haynes repeatedly drags the listener through a succession of vertiginous sonic sinkholes. Single impacts – origins unknown and undisclosed – resonate and decay slowly n heavy atmosphere. The spoken word introduction to ‘It Doesn’t Matter’ sets an eerie tone, but this again is devastated in a tinnitus-inducing wall of screeding noise worthy of Merzbow at his most brutal.

It takes time and focus to peer through the harsh noise to discern the textures. Like stepping into the dark from a brightly-illuminated interior space, it takes time to recalibrate the senses. There are quieter passages, but they’re no less intense and no lighter in tone. Ominous monotone drones and hums hang for aeons; time is suspended in space.

Neither the full-throttle abrasion nor the shady, moody spells of dank mental torture offer anything by way of respite or levity: Jim Haynes is an artist who dwells in darkness and creates work that ranges from the darkest greys to the pitchest of blacks. Throttle & Calibration stands at the darker, more violent end of the spectrum. Uncomfortable unpleasant, and unforgiving, it’s a well-realised plunge into the bowels of a new shade of, rendered from the terrains of the everyday.

 

Jim Haynes – Throttle and Calibration

Like your experimental noise / black metal to be ulra-dark and heavy with sinister occultism and mystical imagery? The new video from T.O.M.B. (Total Occultic Mechanical Blasphemy) for the track ‘Awake…Darkness’ from Fury Nocturnus should be right up your darkened, blood-slicked alley…

Ici d’ailleurs – IDA121 – 3rd February 2017

James Wells

The duo call it ‘death swing’, ‘weird wave’ or ‘funeral pop’. These self-made tags go some way to describe the multiple facets of their quirky, homespun brand of analogue-driven bedroom electropop. Grainy, grindy synths tones undulate through opener ‘Archaic Landscapes’, a primitive drum machine keeping time and clattering away tinnily as Xavier Klaine croons and yelps. The overall effect is like a psychedelic garage reimagining of Suicide.

Trilling fairground organs wow and flutter to forge light-hearted odd pop moments. It’s all very lo-fi and fizzy, and ‘Yallah’ manifests as a squalling new-wave noise of overloading treble, reminiscent of early Jesus and Mary Chain on speed. But ‘Jesus’ brings a graceful, funereal melancholy and a previously unheard sensitivity.

The scuzzed-out rap-rock racket of ‘The Land of the Free’ reveals further facets of their quirky style: Ruth Rosenthal hollers into a swirling vortex of sound. The quavering eeriness of ‘Delightful Blindness’ is intriguingly atmospheric, and the creeping stealth of ‘Imagine’ draws the curtain in suspenseful style.

 

WINTER-FAMILY-South-From-Here

Ahead of the release of their new album, Nightmare Logic through Southern Lord on 24th February, Power Trip have unleashed the title track by way of a taster. You can hear it here, with tour dates alongside Napalm Death and Brujeria listed in full below.

POWER TRIP JOIN ‘CAMPAIGN FOR MUSICAL DESTRUCTION TOUR’ WITH NAPALM DEATH & BRUJERIA

Tuesday, 25 April 2017 Copenhagen – Amager Bio, DK
Wednesday, 26 April 2017 Gothenburg – Pustervik, SWE
Thursday, 27 April 2017 Stockholm – Kraken STHLM, SWE
Friday, 28 April 2017 Flensburg – Roxy, DE
Saturday, 29 April 2017 Magdeburg – Factory, DE
Sunday, 30 April 2017 Haarlem – Patronaat, NL
Monday 1 May 2017 Koln – Underground, DE
Tuesday, 2 May 2017 Berlin – SO36, DE
Wednesday, 3 May 2017 DAY OFF
Thursday, 4 May 2017 Krakow – Kwadrat Club, PL
Friday, 5 May 2017 Brno – Klub Fléda, CZ
Sunday, 7 May 2017 Saarbrücken – Garage, DE
Monday, 8 May 2017 DAY OFF
Tuesday, 9 May 2017 Birmingham – O2 Institute, UK
Wednesday, 10 May 2017 Glasgow – Classic Grand, UK
Thursday, 11 May 2017 Manchester – Rebellion, UK
Friday, 12 May 2017 London – The Electric Ballroom, UK
Saturday, 13 May 2017 Paris – Le Glazart, FR
Sunday, 14 May 2017 Antwerpen – Zappa, BE
Monday, 15 May 2017 DAY OFF
Tuesday, 16 May 2017 Six Fours Les Plages – Espace André Malraux, FR
Wednesday, 17 May 2017 Geneva – L’Usine, CH
Thursday, 18 May 2017 Bologna – Zona Roveri, IT
Friday, 19 May 2017 Karlsruhe – NCO Club, DE
Saturday, 20 May 2017 München – Backstage, DE
Sunday, 21 May 2017 Eindhoven – Effenaar, NL
…with more dates to be announced

Album Art: Paolo Girardi

Christopher Nosnibor

I’m struggling here. I know that people standing texting, Facebooking, taking selfies and shooting videos while dancing is immensely irritating for a band. It’s immensely irritating for other people in the audience, too. But I’m struggling to think of a scenario when it would ever be acceptable to harangue a woman in the front row with the line ‘get off your fucking phone, bitch!’. Or, indeed, to interrupt a lengthy and rousing right-on speech about inclusivity, about how it’s ‘bullshit’ to hate someone for being black or gay, etc., with ‘get your fucking hands in the air, bitches!’ (followed by a head-shaking ‘Shit, women!’). I’ll let that sit for a moment because I’m here for the supports, Raging Speedhorn and local monsters of noise, RSJ.

Arriving at 7:35 for a show with an advertised door time of 7:30, I’m a little surprised to find the place heaving and RSJ half-way through their thunderous set. But I’m able to worm my way to the front as they piledrive their way to the set’s climax, ‘Play it Again, Sam’. Look up ‘intensity’ in the dictionary, and you’ll probably find a picture of RSJ playing live.

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RSJ

Things have been a bit unsettled in camp Speedhorn recently, with Frank Reagan being forced to sit the tour out on doctors’ orders. And so RSJ’s Dan Cook is filling in, and despite playing back to back sets, his energy – and intensity – is unwavering. Cook looks comfortable and the dynamic between the two vocalists is on-point as they go all-out on the confrontation (and occasional off-the-cuff banter) which is integral to their shows. Building the tension by drenching the venue in howling, humming feedback, they erupt onto the stage, John Loughlin opening a bottle of beer with his teeth and spitting the cap to the floor before the band assume their places to commence the set with the customary menacing stare-out.

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Raging Speedhorn

These guys are good: they never fail to build their sets to a point of total frenzy. Slam-dancing breaks out during the second song, ‘Bring Out Your Dead’, but the band goad, harangue, hassle and coerce the audience, with both encouragement and abuse, and it works: the crowd get closer in, and they get moving. ‘Motörhead’ is utterly ball-busting, and Cooke’s menacing presence and lighting-rig climbing antics make for one hell of a show. By the end of their too-short set it’s mayhem.

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Raging Speedhorn

While they’re setting the stage for Skindred, the rammed crowd are getting down to Red Hot Chilli Peppers blaring from the PA. I’ve always detested them, and the funk groove of ‘Suck My Kiss’ epitomises everything I loathe about them. I’m no purist, but some crossovers simply aren’t meant to be, which is primarily the reason I’ve spent the entirety of Skindred’s career avoiding them. The Queen singalong orchestrated by some bozo near the front is beyond embarrassing: isn’t this supposed to be a metal gig? Queen aren’t even rock.

But Skindred’s Benji Webbe harps on endlessly about ‘rock ‘n’ roll’ during their set, which is every bit as vibrant as their reputation would suggest. However – and please, (s)top me if you think that you’ve heard this one before – if Brexit and the advent of Trump (and the success of Oasis, for that matter) tell us anything, it’s that popularity is no measure of artistic merit. The crowd lap it up. No, more than that: they go absolutely fucking ballistic.

I get the deal of being ‘in the moment’ at a live performance. It’s why I live for live music. Even when reviewing, I will, often, forget to take any notes and will return with only a handful of photos because I’ve been enjoying the music, the performance, the atmosphere, soaking it all up and immersing myself in the show from the same perspective as everyone else. I may be a music writer, or critic, but I’m a fan first and foremost. Skindred, I witnessed as a detached spectator. I simply could not get into the moment.

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Skindred

The union jack pegged to the mic stand set me on edge for a start. In the current climate, it’s a divisive symbol. For a band fronted by a big black guy to flout, it’s clearly intended as a signifier or unity and collectivism, of being black and British, but even so. There’s a certain incongruity there, just as there’s an incongruity in a Welsh metal band fronted by a guy sporting a pair of sequinned hammer pants. The trouble is, it’s neither challenging nor funny. It’s therefore not funny when Webbe plays the race card, taunting the audience – being a packed-out crowd who’ve paid £20 to see his band – with ‘black guy on stage… what’s he saying? I don’t understand what he’s saying’. I would say it was insulting and patronising the audience’s intelligence, but they’re all in the moment and aren’t taking a critical stance on this. It’s banter, innit?

Musically, from a detached, distant, and critical perspective, it’s a fucking mess. Based around a metal / reggae crossover more heinous than the funk / metal hell of RHCP, Skindred also drag in elements of hardcore punk, dancehall, jungle, ska, hip hop, drum and bass, dubstep, and they do so clumsily, their sub-RATM stylings, and with endless calls of ‘C’mon! C’mon!’ all ripped into some horrible stew which simmers the bones of House of Pain, Shaggy, and Funkadelic into a stinking, foamy broth.

Amidst the sea of ubiquitous metaller beards, the ratio of XY to XX chromosome is uncommonly high. But this makes the beaming grins and the willingness of the female segment of the audience to buy into and participate in the band’s crudely-executed agenda, laced with sexism and misogyny, all the more perplexing. Sure, the Newport Helicopter – a ritual which entails the majority of the audience, regardless of sex, removing their t-shirts and rotating them above their heads, regardless of the danger to those around them – is pitched as symbolic of unity and empowerment. But when you’ve got Webbe up there yelling ‘get them titties bouncing!’ and so forth, it sounds more like a guy playing the rock star and getting his rocks off by exploiting the crowd than a true moment of collective liberation. And, in context of everything else, it’s deeply unplasant.

RSJ and Raging Speedhorn were ace, though.

Gizeh Records – 17th February 2017

Christopher Nosnibor

FOUDRE! describe themselves as ‘a telluric drone quartet’. Composed of Frédéric D. Oberland (Oiseaux-Tempête, The Rustle Of The Stars, FareWell Poetry), Romain Barbot (Saåad, I Pilot Dæmon), Grégory Buffier (Saåad, Autrenoir), Paul Régimbeau (Mondkopf, Extreme Precautions, Autrenoir), and featuring ‘electric chimeras’ by Christine Ott on ondes martenot, they’re effectively an avant-garde drone supergroup. And EARTH is their third album.

Said album is in fact a soundtrack, scored as a live audio accompaniment to the motion picture of the same title, an experimental film directed by Singaporean artist Ho Tzu Nyen. Of the film, Ho Tzu Nyen explains, “We see the site of an unknown disaster, the debris of history that constitutes the story of Earth. Upon the site, lay fifty humans oscillating between consciousness and unconsciousness, life and death. Sometimes, one of them emerges into the foreground – clutching a fist, batting an eyelid, or weeping for his neighbor. At other times, these figures recede from the light, losing their individual shapes to form a gigantic organism, breathing in unison, pulsating like a jellyfish, though their journey across Earth.”

The concept is strange, alien, and the soundscapes forged by FOUDRE! are very much within the realms of the eerie: dark, ominous, tense, essentially preoccupied with conveying a sense of the unknown, the unknowable; the unseen and the unseeable. As Mark Fisher discusses in The Weird and the Eerie, what renders a work ‘eerie’ is the tension, the fear of the unknown. The revelation or the breaking of the tension is the moment at which eeriness ends. There is no end on EARTH beyond the end of the sound. There is no resolution, and the creeping strangeness simply hangs in the air as the silence encroaches.

The creeping fog of the ten-minute ‘Still Life’ opens the album by opening a portal to a strange, dark landscape. Precisely how strange and alien is indeterminable by sound alone, but the mind’s eye conjures shadows, half-light, a dense, sulphuric atmosphere. Willingly or otherwise, you are transported, and are now in the moment, and elsewhere. Geography is, after all, a state of mind. On ‘Goliath’ shrieking, ghoulish notes, disembodied and strange howl and hum as rapidly oscillating synths simmer to a jittery edginess beneath.

An ambient soundtrack, detached from its visuals, becomes a vessel into which the listener, by a certain sense of necessity, pours in their own meaning. Abstractions take on meaning simply by virtue of the way certain sounds and frequencies resonate in the lister’s mind, stirring subconscious recollections and sensations which lack clear definition. The elongated drones gradually turn, vaporous and ethereal, twisted and thick inspire reflection and projection: you empty yourself, casting your uncertainties into the sonic vortex, to find your emotional fragilities offered back in return. This is a film soundrack – and one performed and recorded live, as the rapturous applause at the end reminds us – but in the space between, this becomes your soundtrack. Immerse yourself. And see the film if you can.

 

Foudre - Earth