Archive for the ‘Albums’ Category

Crazysane Records – 24th Nov 2023

Christopher Nosnibor

The press release describes Zahn as a ‘German post–modern noise rock ensemble’, while their bandcamp bio offers ‘A bold escape from your daily life through technicolor transmissions of post–rock, krautrock, dark jazz, noise–rock, post–punk and electronic music. Influenced by the likes of TRANS AM, THE JESUS LIZARD, METZ, THE MELVINS and TORTOISE’, adding that ‘Adria is a compelling soundtrack to a 1980’s anti–utopian road movie!’

As a prospect, it’s head-spinning, sounding like an everything-all-at-once hybrid, and the actuality isn’t much different. There are plenty of driving grooves, largely propelled by solid bass and insistent drumming, but there are also some angular riffs and big splashes of noise.

The first track, ‘Zebra,’ boasts a bulbous bass with some big low-end and some easy, noodly synths which wibble and wander agreeably and mellifluously… and then towards the end it builds and distorts and things get altogether more twisted and less pleasant. And this is a feature characteristic of the compositions on show here. They don’t mash everything into every second simultaneously, and there’s none of that jazz / Beefheart kind of stuff that sounds like each band member is playing a different tune in a different key and time signature all at the same time. There are times where that kind of avant-gardism most definitely has its place, and works, but this isn’t what Zahn are doing here. In keeping with the road movie concept, the pieces are constructed around transition.

The ten-minute ‘Schmuck’ is a magnificent example of their ability to do mellow, with clean sounds and even a tinge of a country twang, it swings along breezily and evokes sunshine and expansive vistas. Then, near the seven-minute mark, the bass steps up to a crunching grind and things get a whole lot noisier, from where it builds into a big, driven riff which crackles with energy. ‘Yuccatan 3E’ is another colossus of a cut, running to almost nine and a half minutes and manages to take it time in pushing outwards and working a single passage for a fair while, but equally packs in at least three or four songs’ worth of ideas.

The changes feel organic, and sometimes emerge gradually, and at others there will be a sudden and unexpected swerve, and there’s so much happening that the absence of vocals barely registers.

Because the mood, tone, and tempo differs so radically between songs – and between sections – Adria very much does feel like a journey, through space and time. ‘Apricot’ is a sparse synth work with crispy vintage drum machine snare cutting through quavering analogue synth sounds – then, without changing the instrumentation or the simple repetitive motif, it goes massive. A post-rock Depeche Mode chronically undersells it, but it’s as close as I can get, at least off the top of my head. The final minute is an extravagant climax, and truly magnificent.

The majority of the album’s eleven tracks run past five minutes, with the majority sitting more around the seven-minute mark, but the eleven-and-a-half-minute ‘Faser’ is the album’s megalithic centrepiece. It blasts hard with a fuzzy, scuzzy repetitive riff cycle with stoner rock tendencies, and it’s dynamic and exhilarating. Dropping down to bubbling synths in the breakdown around six minutes in, the threat of a re-emergence of the heavy lingers suspensefully. When it does land, it does so with a vengeance, before transitioning once more into something altogether different again, skittering its way into Krautrock territory.

The power blast of ‘Tabak’ hits square between the eyes and feels unexpected however expected it actually is. These guys are absolute masters of the unpredictable and varied structure, and conjure some highly evocative and atmospheric passages, and while the playing is technical, it’s not technical for its own sake: there’s nothing showy or extravagant, and the focus is very much on the compositions, the structures, and the impact. ‘Amaranth’ piledrives a full-on doom riff, slogging away at it for what feel like an eternity. It’s a heavy trudge, and really hits the spot – again, when you least expect it.

Adria straddles many, many genres, and does so in a way that’s incredibly imaginative. The key to its success is its execution, which balances precision with passion.

AA

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23rd November 2023

Christopher Nosnibor

Dark post punk and music of a gothy persuasion appears to be enjoying – if enjoyment is an accurate description – of late. Dark times call for dark music, and the echoes of the 80s which resonate in the presents are deep. As financial turmoil continues to bite hard – and hardest on those who struggle the most – and war rages around the world, the new state of cold war which hovers has been relegated to a mere shadow in the background, bur remains very real. Add climate change and constant surveillance, massive inflation, and a global political shift to the right to the mix, and we have the perfect cocktail for an explosion of music which channels dissent and frustration.

But what goes around comes around, and it’s a truism that if you stick with what you’re doing long enough, it will inevitably come back into fashion at some point. And so here we are presented with Do Not Switch On, the latest offering from we be echo.

Canadian Kevin Thorne has been doing what he does for a long time. As he set out in his bio, ‘I formed Third Door From The Left with Raye Coluori in 1979. I left to form we be echo in 1981, and released Ceza Evi on cassette and contributed to several compilations. I’m still recording now, some 40 plus years later. And what do you know? The world has come back around and caught up with his mode of musical output once more.

Do Not Switch On is straight in with bass that snakes and crunches: ‘Cold Rain Gun’ is dark, dank, weighty and throbs away as Thorne paints a word-portrait of a bleak and dangerous world. Depressingly, any depiction of near-future dystopias are more or less the reality in which we find ourselves.

Instrumentally, ‘At You, Because’ sounds like a cut from The Jesus and Mary Chain’s Honey’s Dead, with a driving bass and shuffling beats locking down a solid groove. The same is largely rue of the pulsating psychedelic throb of ‘Sometimes’, which calls to mind the cyclical stylings of Pink Turns Blue, only with more bass – much more bass – and more noise – much more noise.

‘Grey, Grey’ is a blistering riff-driven tune, and it’s swampy, dark, dense, with a tinge of not only psychedelia but of swampy surf. For all that, The Black Angels stand as the closest comparisons, at least on this absolute stomper, and hot on its heels, ‘Die For You’ follows the same hypnotic template, a motoric beat thudding away through various explosions of sound while Thorne croaks and croons a monotone amidst the swirling tension, and ‘Sepia’ locks into a groove that feels longer than it is, in a good way. If ‘Shallow Hallow’ leans rather heavily on Bauhaus and ‘R.U.N.’ takes a bit much from both The Black Angels and the Sisters of Mercy simultaneously, it works.

Do Not Switch On is a solid album, and that’s a fact. Most of the tracks run past the five-minute mark and drive away at a single repetitive riff for the duration. But within what may appear to be limited confines, Thorne really wrings a lot out of what is, in real terms, a minimal setup.

This stuff never ceases to excite, either live or recorded. Do Not Switch On is solid, and nags and gnaws unexpectedly.

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Mind Altering Records – 13th November 2023

Christopher Nosnibor

Back at the start of 2021, I penned a pretty positive review of the solarminds album Her Spirit Cracked the Sky. The combination of ambience and extreme weight was a thrilling proposition. And it was – and still is – monumentally epic. It feels a long time ago already, and much has happened in the interim. If emerging from the pandemic was trailed for a long time by the release of myriad ‘lockdown’ projects, we’ve subsequently trickled into a ‘world’s turned to shit’ phase, and like the pandemic, it feels like there’s no end in sight. Trump may be out of office, but he still looms large and continues to pose a threat in the arena of world politics, and it’s a world at war, and a world where alternately wild fires and floods decimate swathes of land. Slowly but surely, the planet is becoming less inhabitable. And yet, still, people jet off on skiing holidays and bemoan the lack of snow despite being the cause of the lack of snow, and whenever it rains, people take to their cars to make five-minute journeys to avoid getting wet, thus ensuring it will rain an awful lot more in the time to come.

And since the release of Her Spirit Cracked the Sky, after more than a decade, Chris Miner has put the project to bed. But, like the proverbial phoenix rising from the ashes, he now returns with Sun Colour Sound, and the first in a projected trilogy of releases. On the evidence of this first one, it will be something special.

Ritual One (Climbing the Fire into the Sky) consists of a single piece, which runs just short of half an hour, and it shares many elements with solarminds – namely a fair bit of noise, some hefty guitars and punishing percussion, at least in the first two thirds, and it’s heavy, harsh, noisy, and it crashes straight in with some grating, heavy drone, twisting feedback and thudding drums.

This is one of those tracks which stars like the end of many sets, and it feels like it’s winding down from the offing. This is by no means a criticism, simply an observation that what in the context of many works is a climactic, tempestuous crescendo finale, is simply the start of a ferocious sonic storm. It does very much call to mind Sunn O))) and the epic, swirling instrumental passages of contemporary Swans, although the guitars are very much geared towards generating howling feedback rather than crushing, clashing chords that sound like buildings being demolished. Therte’s something of a psychedelic twist in the spacey delivery, too. As whining, whistling notes ring out, the percussion builds from the occasional roll to a relentless thunder. The combination is immensely powerful, and assails the senses with a real physicality. Buy around the thirteen-minute mark, it’s reached wall-of-sound levels, a dense, shimmering sonic force which shimmers and ripples while coming on like a bulldozer, at the same time as hand drums fly at a frantic pace and evoking something spiritual in the midst of a hypnotic frenzy. And still, it goes on, surging forwards.

The shift in the final third occurs subtly: the percussion continues to clatter away, but the guitar abrasion tapers away, to be replaced by altogether softer strings.

Ritual One (Climbing the Fire into the Sky) is more than just a really long piece of music: it’s an ambitious piece in every way, and its scope and scale are immense. There is so much depth and detail here, and it takes repeated listens to really appreciate just how much is happening, especially given that the first reaction is simply to bow to its sheer sonic force.

But the last ten minutes belong to a different world from the first portion. Hypnotic, soothing, graceful, the tension dissipates and Eastern vibes radiate through the gauze-like layers which drift and float over the busy but altogether more subdued percussion.

So while it is an ambitious work, it also delvers far above any expectations, and it’s both unique and special.

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Neurot Recordings – 10th November 2023

Christopher Nosnibor

It’s practically impossible to overstate just how grim things have got lately. It’s not just any one thing, either. The climate is fucked, the economy is fucked, the world is at war. This isn’t about local pockets of fuckedness. It’s all fucked. Ex Everything very much appreciate this, as set out in the notes which accompany Slow Change Will Pull Us Apart: ‘Our world has been gradually falling apart. This may seem like a bleak point of view, but the collapse we’re all witnessing inspired post-mathcore outfit Ex Everything as they created their eruptive debut Slow Change Will Pull Us Apart… “Everything around us–politically, socially, environmentally–seems to be stretching and breaking,” says guitarist Jon Howell. “Our record sits in that terrifying place where you’ve been watching it happen.”

A fair few people I know – my age bracket in particular – have said they’ve stopped watching or reading news because it’s detrimental to their mental health. No doubt it is, but the bliss of ignorance can’t last forever and ignoring everything that’s going on is the ultimate compliance. British politicians in particular repeatedly begin sentences with ‘let me be clear’ – before rolling out an endless ream of obfuscations. So let me be clear. Everything is fucked, and things are only going to get worse.

As their bio summarises, ‘The Bay Area quartet boasts current and former members of Kowloon Walled City, Early Graves, Mercy Ties, Blowupnihilist, Less Art and others, but listeners shouldn’t mistake this for a short-term project or side band. This is a priority, every member focused and committed, and it only takes a few minutes with the album to understand how serious they are. “This band is completely its own thing,” says Howell. “It addresses the part of us that wants to write fast, chaotic, knotty, messy, pissed off music.”’

Fast, chaotic, knotty, messy, pissed off music is precisely what these chaotic, knotty, messy times call for. It feels as if the world was waiting for the pandemic to end to go absolutely all out to annihilate one another. There has, throughout history, always been a war somewhere, but now, there’s pretty much a war everywhere, and in less violent, bloody battles, governments wage war on the poor in the interest of ‘the economy’ and fuck over society’s most vulnerable, from the unemployed to the disabled, not to mention the homeless, the wounded, mostly in the interests of capitalism.

Slow Change Will Pull Us Apart packs eight hard-hitting, heavy tracks which rage and rage and rage and hit so hard, in a furious frenzy. The guitars are often busy and brittle and mathy, but the rhythm section is welded together and blast the hardest sonic attack. Slow Change Will Pull Us Apart is the sum of its parts, and that’s a positive here: it brings together the best elements of the contributors and fuses them into something tight, taut, uncomfortable. Single cut ‘Exiting the Vampire Castle’ is exemplary: full-throttle noise rock with dominated by shuddering bass and thunderous drums, with guitars which are both grimy but also reverby clanging over the top, while the vocals and raw and nihilistic. This is some full-on angst: ‘A Sermon in Praise of Corruption’ is a full-on, blistering rager, and there really isn’t much let-up in terms of ferocity. This is an unashamedly political album, as titles such as ‘Slow cancellation of the Future’, ‘The Last Global Slaughter’ and ‘Plunder, Cultivate, Fabricate’ suggest. These are highly political times, so it’s only right that Ex Everything tackle the issues.

There is detail, there are moments where they pull back on the pace and the blunt force, but they’re brief, and serve ultimately to accentuate the immense and intense power of the rest of the album when they put their collective foot hard on the pedal And drive forward hard.

In the face of everything, rational contemplation and collected consideration are difficult. The real urge is to give in to the temptation to simply give up, give in, and to scream at the world to fuck off. Slow Change Will Pull Us Apart comes close, but better than that, it noisily articulates the nihilistic rage which sprays in all directions. There’s no one thing that’s shit or fucked up: it’s everything. And sometimes the only way to deal is to let it all out. Ex Everything do that, channelling every last drop of fury into this bleak and hefty beast of an album.

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Metropolis Records – 3rd November 2023 (Digital) / 17th November 2023 (CD)

Christopher Nosnibor

Ian Ross’ electro-industrial project Flesh Field emerges, quite unexpectedly, from almost two decades of dormancy, twenty years in mute, to deliver ‘A concept work with each of its ten tracks representing stages of political radicalisation and violence, Ross states in the CD booklet that “believing falsehoods because those falsehoods reinforce our preferred narratives is not harmless. Promoting falsehoods to benefit your faction is not harmless, particularly in a well-armed society. If we remain locked in our own echo chambers, inevitably there will a voice of the echo chamber that speaks in the language of mass murder, believing it justified. This album describes that tragic inevitability.”

It’s not hard to ascertain ‘why now?’ While I’ve long become weary of the endless and continuing stream of ‘lockdown projects’ emerging, it’s a fair assessment that the pandemic did change everything. Confined, pressurised, and subjected to a relentless bombardment of news media, government ‘information’ and directives, and often with only social media for company beyond the four walls of home imprisonment, people struggled to separate fact from misinformation and conspiracy, reality from fiction and imagination.

I first really noticed the echo chamber some time before, in 2016, with the Brexit referendum in June, swiftly followed by the election of Donald Trump as US president in November. Both results seemed not only implausible, but nigh on impossible. No-one I knew or spoke to supported either as far as I knew – why would anyone vote for either of these outcomes? But against a backdrop of simmering tensions and social divisions and a general melee of things being pretty fucked, these seemingly unimaginable things came to pass. I would subsequently learn that relatives had voted in favour of Brexit ‘to see what would happen’. Fucking Boomers who won’t be around to live through the worst of the fallout. And this is how it goes when you have ageing populations and a swing towards the right in uncertain times. People seek to protect their own interests rather than the greater good. It doesn’t necessarily mean that echo chambers perpetuate falsehoods, but they do most certainly create confirmation bias, foster complacency, and distort reality by creating a bubble. And now… there is no way Ross could have predicted the dark turn that would assail the Middle East just a few short weeks ago. The divisions surrounding this conflict reverberate around the globe. And we watch. And we watch. It’s simply more TV, more unreality to many.

During Flesh Field’s protracted period of inactivity, their work continues to spread, like a fungus, or to perhaps use an analogy more akin to their own spheres of reference, like a virus, numerous tracks from their catalogue were placed in the soundtracks of films including the just released The Mill, TV shows such as True Blood and video games like Project Gotham Racing. Sometimes, being away is the best promotion.

But there couldn’t be a more appropriate time for Flesh Field to return, and Voice of the Echo Chamber is a powerful document reflecting these difficult times. The opening track, ‘

Crescendo’ stars strong, with a cacophony of babbling voices, before thunderous percussion and bold orchestral strikes build big drama. Not since Red Raw and Sore by PIG have I been struck by such a grand intro to an album, and this melds driving metallic guitars, industrial-strength techno beats and seething bombast. It’s a strong cocktail and one that hits the listener right between the eyes, paving the way for a set of ten insistent tracks all driven by loping sequenced synths and thudding hefty beats pushed to the fore and pumping, pulsating hypnotically. The are choral bursts woven into the dense fabric of the compositions, as well as strings and piano and incidental noise: ‘Catalyst’ crunches in with a harsh mechanised grind which gives way to a filly cinematic string segment before the pounding beat slams in and things get dark, like an industrial reimagining of Holst’s ‘Planets’ suite. The vocals are low in the mix and low in the throat. The delivery means the lyrics aren’t always especially audible, but the sentiment and energy is relentlessly loud and clear amidst the grunt, grind, and crackle.

‘Arsenal’ goes big, a gritty anthemic chorus paired with a crunchy industrial verse that draws together elements of NIN, KMFDM, and PIG, to big, big effect, being both attacking and cinematic at the same time. There’s plenty of attack here, but equally, Voice of the Echo Chamber is big on bold, widescreen, cinematic segments. ‘Manifesto’ is a monster, with all the guitars, all the orchestral work, and a relentless beat that hits hard and heavy and it all comes together to create a big, big sound. The pounding ‘Soldier’ is really big on impact, and contrasts well with the brooding, slow-crawling ambience and piano atmospherics of the unexpectedly gentle introduction to ‘Rampage’.

There’s a certain sense of uplifting empowerment to be found in the chorus of the last track, ‘Reset’. Ewe need this glummer of optimism in the face of so much relentless bleakness and gut-crushing darkness, which ends with more crowds, more shouting. You flinch and stall, because it’s too close, too real.

In places harsh and stark despite its enormity, Voice of the Echo Chamber is a strong, relentless, unyielding blast. I feel that this is a time to sit back, let things repercuss in their own time, and step back while Ian Ross blasts distortion, vitriol, and amplifies self-loathing with brutal force. Feel it.

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Human Worth – 10th November 2023

Christopher Nosnibor

I know it’s not really cool to make that you’re cool because you’re in the know or whatever. A few years ago, it was the way of the hipster, but after what felt like forever, they seems to have disappeared, probably because everyone grew beards during lockdown, so the hipsters had to shave and resort to telling people they were wearing a beard before the pandemic or something. Nevertheless, I can’t help but take some satisfaction from having observed Beige Palace from their very dawn, at their first show in the now-lost CHUNK rehearsal space-cum-gig venue way back in the spring of 2016. The place was a bugger to get to from the train station, being practically in the middle of nowhere you’d actually want to go, and to describe it as basic would be polite. But what CHUNK provided was a place where anything went. It was BYOB, pay what you can, and it was a hub of creativity which lay at the heart of the DIY scene in Leeds. And so it was that Beige Palace – perhaps not quite a supergroup at the time, but simply people in other bands (Freddy Vinehill-Cliffe (Thank), Kelly Bishop (Gloomy Planets) and Ant Bedford (Cattle)) doing something different together – came to be.

They’ve come a way since then, notably with slots at The Brudenell supporting Mclusky and also Shellac, with a personal thumbs-up from god himself, Steve Albini. There’s likely a number of reasons for this, apart from the simple fact that Beige palace are bloody good, a major one being that they make angular noise without being overly abrasive, preferring instead to push sounds that are slated, skewed, imbalanced, jarring, jolting. This is right up front at the start of this, their second long-player, with ‘Not Waving’, a scuzzy collision of Shellac, The Fall, early Pavement, and Truman’s Water. The bass is right up in the mix, the vocals down low, and everything about it is absolutely wrong in terms of conventional sound. You can imagine sound engineers all around the country shaking their heads and saying “but that bass is just booming… it’s drowning out the vocals… and the guitar, maybe you should take the treble down a bit?” But Beige palace’s sound isn’t conventional, and they’re not going for radio-friendly pop tunes.

The album’s title appears to make a nod to XTC, and calls to mind the band’s hit ‘Making Plans for Nigel’ (surely one of the greatest snappy tunes of the New wave era) and the fact that Andy Partridge was co-frontman of XTC. Coincidence? Am I joining dots and identifying references which simply don’t exist? Possibly, but then again, for all the wrongness, the off-key and the off-kilter, there are some neat hooks to be found leaping out from the rumbling basslines and loping drums. ‘Local Sandwich’ is representative: the rhythm section strolls along kicking a loose groove where the bass and drums are seemingly playing alternate to one another, the discordant sprechgesang vocals of the verses overlap one another, making for a tense combination – and then out of nowhere, pow! Hook! And then a squalling climax.

The genius of the songwriting lies in its unpredictability: for as much as the compositions are largely built around repetitive motifs, hammering away at the same nagging loop for minutes at a time, adding and subtracting elements such as keyboard or guitar, they’re prone to veer off somewhere else or otherwise change tempo or burst into a scratchy blast of noise at precisely the moment you least expect – and just when you expect something unexpected, a song like ‘My Brother Bagagwaa’ doesn’t do it. They’re as keen to explore the space in between the notes as the notes themselves, and there are numerous passages on Making Sounds for Andy where they pull things back to stark minimalism. This makes the crackling bursts of distortion and clattering drums all the more impactful.

Leeds has a habit of birthing weird bands who are nosy but not noise, with the legendary Bilge Pump and the should-have-been-legendary Bearfoot Beware providing a brace of examples – but Beige Palace are very much their own band. Making Sounds for Andy is a bold celebration of ramshackle lo-fi, delivered in such a way as to hit hard. It’s got ‘underground classic’ all over it.

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Human Worth – 3rd November 2023

Christropher Niasnibor

For all of our astounding advances over the last three millennia, as a species, man is not only a bad animal, but the worst. We have the capacity to achieve truly great things, but instead expend immeasurable amounts of time and effort – and that most ruinous of human constructs, money – on destroying one another and the planet we inhabit. The world is eternally at war, but recently, tensions have escalated to levels which are difficult to comprehend: as the war in Ukraine continues to rage, with almost universal condemnation of Russia, events in the last few weeks in the Middle East have provoked rather different reactions. Division, it seems, begets division, and it seems that the frame has frozen while people bicker over sides, the need to condemn Hamas and to support the mantra that Israel has the right to defend itself.

Perhaps some of this is war-fatigue, perhaps it’s the influence of the media, perhaps some of it’s simply pure shock at the horror of the scale of the bloodshed, but it feels as if the world has paused while all of this plays out with gruesome inevitability. Social media is a minefield, and it feels like any kind of comment could prove inflammatory. But the fact is, political allegiances need to be set aside in the face of the fact that thousands upon thousands of civilians are dying – with women and children disproportionately affected.

The notes which accompany this release set out the situation plainly and directly: there is no need to employ emotive language here, as the stark facts hit far harder.

‘Children in Gaza are living through a nightmare – one that gets more distressing by the hour. So far since the war broke out nearly 4,000 children have been killed – that’s 800 more than yesterday! This horrifying a number surpasses the annual number of children killed in conflict zones since 2019. With a further 1000 children reported missing in Gaza, assumed buried under the rubble, the death toll is likely much higher. All the funds raised through this charity release will be donated to help Save the Children and their network of charities to provide direct lifesaving and mental health support, distribute essential supplies, as well as education facilities and safe spaces for children.’

We know that Human Worth are good guys: the label’s very name is an advertisement for their operating model which involves the donation of a portion of sales proceeds from each release to charity, and they’ve put out a couple of charity compilations already in their relatively brief existence. And while governments sit and watch on, or otherwise give their unreserved backing to Israel, Human Worth have galvanised themselves and their impressive network of artists to pull together a new compilation from which all funds raised will be donated to support Save the Children’s Gaza Emergency Appeal.

This is reason enough to buy it anyway. But this is a stunning release in its own right, featuring twenty-eight tracks from the Human Worth roster and beyond, with a slew of exclusive cuts which make this a quality compilation of music from the noisier end of the spectrum.

It’s got some big hitters, too: Steve Von Till is up first with ‘Indifferent Eyes’ and Enablers are also up early with ‘In McCullin’s Photograph’, and kudos to both the label and the artists for coming together for this.

Sort of supergroup Cower, featuring among others, members of Blacklisters and USA Nails and who released their album BOYS through Human Worth in 2020 offer an exclusive in the shape of the jarring ‘False Flag’, as do Thee Alcoholics with the jolting ‘Catch the Flare’.

Elsewhere, we get representative selections showcasing the best of the label’s recent releases, not least of all ‘Wasted on Purpose’ by Remote Viewing’ and the astringent nine-minute behemoth that is ‘As Shadow Follows Body’ by Torpor from their devastating debut Abscission. Newcastle noisemongers Friend give us eight minutes of carefully-considered transitions and some really quite nice melodies as they build the emerging riff-monster that is ‘Uncle Tommy’. The buzzy, lo-fi gothy synth-punk of The Eurosuite’s exclusive cover of Smashing Pumpkins’ ‘Zero’ is quite a contrast – and sounds like one of Dr Mix and the Remix’s brutal smash-ups – and on the subject of brutal, the sub-two-minute grindcore assault that comes courtesy or FAxFO is utterly furious. HUWWTD’s Late Cormorant Fishing makes for an unexpected standout. Think Shellac with metal vocals and you’re on the way.

Despite the rushed – by necessity – nature off the release, the sequencing shows real consideration as the songs shift between different atmospheres and moods. Human Worth III displays the consistency of quality we’ve come to expect from the label, and the artists’ rapid willingness to contribute speaks volumes about all of them. As a result, Human Worth III is a bloody good album. Go buy it – and pay as much as you can.

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Antenna Non Grata – 8th September 2023

Christopher Nosnibor

Bloody hell, he’s at it again: Lithuanan soundmachine Gintas K has yet another album out – and this one is different again. While Catacombs & Stalactites does, almost inevitably, feature rapid, bubbling, bibbling, watery electronic skitters, which sound like flurrying insects, bubbling water racing around a drain., and R2-D2 fizzing in malfunction, the dominant sonic feature here is not the microtonal bleeps which have been the focus of many of his albums, but heavy, grating synth sounds which buzz, scrape, and distort.

Things begin comparatively gently, but by the third track, ‘Into deepness’, we’re into pretty heavy territory. There are hints of tune to be found in places – dark, gothic synth motifs briefly emerge from the thick haze. It feels loud, and the listening experience is oppressive, like pressure being applied to either side of your skull, and the track really tests your mettle over its six minute duration, because there’s simply no let up, and the thick buzz presses at your brain relentlessly. It’s the same thick, hazy sounds which blare forth on the next piece, ‘Somewhere’ – only rent with tearing laser blasts and distortion which scratches and scrapes at the speaker cones, threatening damage, before it culminates in a crackling blast.

‘Wandering Joy’ wanders through dissonance and discord, warping and scraping through tearing walls of noise and aberrant glitches, spiralling around and spinning through territory shared with power electronics and the more experimental end of industrial (in the Throbbing Gristle sense, not the latter-day Industrial metal of Ministry et al). For all of its wandering, whether or not it brings joy is a matter for discussion, I suppose.

The bold, buzzing, abrasive synths sounds are broad and bassy, and the grinding lower-end oscillations are evocative of Suicide, only amped up to eleven. ‘Atmosphere / Voices’ crashes in on a wall of feedback and overloading distortion. At this point, things reach a new intensity, and the crackling, fizzing buzz at the edges of this enveloping blanket of noise simply adds to the tension which rips from the speakers.

There are lighter moments, which are more quintessential K: then flickering flutters, clicks and pops of ‘Mystery’ are almost playful, sounding somewhat like the pouring of carbonated mortar with twangs and deadened thwaps creating a muggy texture, and ‘Local Beings’ brimming with zaps and squelches which fly every which way before trickling down to a dribble resembling a fast leak.

This is very much Gintas K’s way: his approach to ‘composition’ is very loose and geared toward improvisation.

The album’s title derives from the ninth and tenth tracks, ‘Catacombs’ and ‘Stalactites’ which both in their way evoke the subterranean, darkness, tunnels, claustrophobia. ‘Stalactites’ shutters and reverberates, grates and gyrates, the frequencies registering around the navel amidst another squall of fragmented, glass-like shattering, and ‘Stalactites’ hangs heavy amidst blasts of noise. ‘Catacombs’ fractures and disintegrates as it leads the listener down, down, down. In my mind’s eye, I’m drawn towards recollections of the Paris catacombs – endless miles of tunnels lined with bones, neatly stacked, row upon row of old skulls, fibulas and tibias piled high and all around to forge cavities of death. Few things hold a mirror to mortality more powerfully than infinite piles of dank bones, and K leads – or moreover drags – us through these gloomy tunnels, while still electronic sparks skip and flash like damaged lighting or split cables before explosions of sparking white noise collapse into nothingness.

We’re grateful for a few light splashes and bubbles near the end, but the chances are the trauma has already taken hold.

Catacombs & Stalactites is a harsh and heavy album, and one that isn’t easy to lay to rest, to move on from.

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Bearsuit Records – 31st October 2023

Christopher Nosnibor

Just a little over two years since the idiosyncratically-monikered Eamon the Destroyer arrived with his debut single ‘My Drive’, he’s gone from strength to strength – to the extent that his output has erupted, Godzilla-like, expanding and flexing immense musical muscles. Sort of. Because Eamon the Destroyer’s work is, despite the connotations of a raging beast laying waste to entire civilizations with a single roar, incredibly intimate, with tension building from the introspective minimalism of the songs. With the release of the debut album A Small Blue Car and a remix / reworking of said album landing in quick succession, the arrival of We’ll be Piranhas seems swift.

We’ll be Piranhas finds Eamon the Destroyer (any truncation of the name feels wrong: Eamon too casual and to cuddly; the Destroyer simply unrepresentative) pushing the parameters of experimentalism, conjuring the sonic equivalent of the surreal oddness of the album’s cover, which looks like a three-way split-screen of medievalism, Anglo-Saxon fable, and a deranged reimagining of some of Captain Cook’s sketches of newly-discovered species with what appears to be a polar bear resting its chin on a narwhal, while gulls look on and rabbits look away. Or something.

‘The Choirmaster’ is both droney and playful, quirky, and mellow, until it spins off its axis and into a whole other world of spiralling prog and doodling daftness. It certainly packs a lot into five strange and disorientating minutes. Single ‘Rope’ is glitchy, awkward, and feels like it doesn’t belong to anything, and suddenly, it lurches too life with a loping rhythm and fuzzy synths which provide a backdrop to tense, almost strangled vocals, hushed, strained, and gravelly. Not for the first time, I long for a lyric sheet as the scratchy vocals render the words difficult to decipher, but this is perhaps his most vitriolic piece to date; more often than not, Eamon the Destroyer croaks melancholy: here, there’s a fire, and it carried through into the wheezing clatter of ‘Sonny Said’. There’s a moment around the mid-point I get a pang of Seventeen Seconds-era Cure. But it’s fleeting, and nothing is pinpointable, particularly in this swirling maelstrom of a piece.

When it comes to Bearsuit releases, I often find myself using and reusing the word ‘weird’ as a descriptor – mostly because it’s the thing that really defines the label. While the likes of Harrold Nono spin Eastern hues into spirals and spin drifts of experimentalism, We’ll be Piranhas finds ETD really going all-out to try stuff. And the result is brain-bending.

‘Underscoring the Blues’ somehow manages to melt fairground oddness with The Doors and prog and, well, all sorts, to blur into a curious cocktail.

It’s difficult – if not impossible –to listen to this album and feel ‘normal’. It feels like the soundtrack to a dream: one of those weird dreams where familiar places aren’t quite right – the walls of familiar rooms are different, doors and windows are in the wrong place, and continually moving, and you look to make your way out and suddenly the door has vanished. The floor is moving and familiar faces warp and acquire new, alien aspects. You don’t know who you are or what’s going on, but you know that this isn’t what you expected as the sights and sounds of the familiar melt into one another. You feel your sense of time and space begin to crumble. Where am I? What even is this?

It feels like isolation. It feels like… like… like numbness, confusion. You feel your body tense, the backs of the legs growing taut. The title tracks sends everything spinning and whirling every whichway, and there is no easy way to assimilate this, and the same is true of the woozy glitchings of the desolate ‘A Call is Coming’. Ignore the call; decline it. Look inwards. Woah, something isn’t quite right.

We’ll be Piranhas leaves you feeling detached, askance, apart, removed, not quite right. It’s an introspective work delivered from on the cusp. On the cusp of what? It’s hard to say. Perhaps it’s best not to.

AA

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Gizeh Records – 3rd November 2023

Christopher Nosnibor

While Christine Ott has maintained a steady flow of works over recent years – her fifth album arrives just two years after Time to Die – her latest offering has been a long time in the making. For example, we learn that ‘Die Jagd nach dem Glück’ (The Pursuit of Happiness) is an extract from her original composition for Lotte, mon amour, a film-concert created in 2014 based on 4 short films by Lotte Reiniger, a German director from the first half of the 20th century.’

It’s pitched as ‘a collection of twelve pieces for solo piano, twelve impressionistic miniatures, instrumental and cinematic fractals celebrating the beauty of life…

Éclats (Piano Works) is a kind of mirror image to Chimères (pour Ondes Martenot) (2020, Nahal Recordings).

‘Pluie d’arbres’ introduces the album with magnificently weighted, perfectly paces, rolling notes which balance grace and tension, and it’s a beautiful and engaging composition that comfortably slots into the ‘classical’ bracket not simply by virtue of its being a piano piece, but the delicacy of it all, and the way it articulates changing moods intuitively and with a depth of spirit.

The individual pieces follow one another in such a way as to create the impression of their being written to flow together, and while the tempo and tone may shift during the course of a single piece – there are flurries and flutters, moments of airy levity like the morning sun filtering through a curtain wafting on a gentle early summer breeze, notes coming suddenly in tinkling cascades – the album as a whole feels like a single, continuous piece. Rather than any one track being ‘dark’ or ‘light’, they each run through a succession of sensations, turning on a pinhead from brooding to playful, uplifting to reflective.

There’s an honesty about this, which speaks to the human condition. Yes, you may have good days and bad days, but most days are a series of peaks and troughs, highs and lows, unexpected and near-immediate switches that some about as the result of various but specific interactions – or, indeed, sometimes, a lack thereof. Éclats feels real because it doesn’t try to be any one thing, but more taps into the unpredictability of life. And Ott plays in such a way as to bring all of this out through the music, through her connection with the keys.

At times sad, at times uplifting, at times, it simply is… and this is the real joy of the experience of listening to Éclats. At its lightest, it carries you on rippling sonic clouds and pokes at the sky: at its darkest, it hangs heavy in your stomach. It’s hard not to be drawn in and fully engaged with this set of pieces, and it will take you anywhere if you let it.

AA

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