Posts Tagged ‘Album Review’

Charlemagne Palestine & Seppe Gebruers – Beyondddddd The Notessssss

Posted: 25 January 2025 in Albums, Reviews
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Konnekt – 1st February 2025

Christopher Nosnibor

It’s perhaps an understatement that Charlemagne Palestine’s body of work is immense, and the range of artists he’s collaborated with quire staggering. Active since the early 70s, it’s likely impossible to give a brief summary of his career or output, and when approaching a work such as this, I find it easier to place career context to one side and evaluate it on its own merits. It may be an admission of failure, a confession to a limited knowledge, but the debates over how a release sits in relation to the other forty or so albums are the place of fan forums.

However, in keeping with his habit of adding many repeated letterssssss at the end of words and songgggggggg titlesssss, Beyondddddd The Notessssss, his collaboration with Seppe Gebruers bears a rather daft titleeeee, of which I shall make no more, other than to observe that this suitably sparse, piano-led work does indeed take the listener beyond the notes as it promises.

Over time, I’ve become quite drawn to this type of album, which seems to proliferate in experimental circles, whereby an LP – released on vinyl, too – will contain just two or three tracks, and the compositions seem to be arranged around the fact that each side has the capacity for around twenty minutes of audio. I suppose it’s because I grew up in the 80s, and was raised on vinyl as the dominant format, but in the world of the mainstream, where an album – approximately forty minutes in duration – would consist of ten, or perhaps nine songs, most of which were three or four minutes in length, and could be lifted as a radio-playable single. In the late 80s and 90s, the 12” would provide longer edits of singles, often aimed at clubs, but discovering the two-track album was a revelation, in that it seemed like a revolution of form. I was unfamiliar with the works of Tangerine Dream, Yes, or Pink Floyd beyond their singles at this time, because… well, because.

Side one is occupied by the twenty-one minute ‘Gotcha I’, a sparse composition where discord dominates to render an uncomfortable listening experience. It feel like semi-random plonking on an out of tune piano. In pinks and pings, plongs and tinkles with no time sequence, no key, and no clear sense of form. It simply is. Notes clash and collide, ripple and rush against one another, sometimes holding back, hanging in suspense. In some respects, it bears a resemblance to jazz improv pieces – and perhaps not entirely surprisingly: this album features two pianists ‘passion for unusual tunings and the playing of multiple pianos’. The result of the collaboration is four pianos, played simultaneously, with each piano tuned in a rather less than conventional way.

It would perhaps be beguiling if it wasn’t so far removed from anything we’ve been accustomed to recognising as melodic. But as it is… everything simply sounds wrong. Atonal, uncomfortable, off-key and off-kilter. The effect is quite brain-bending, because everything feels warped, out of step, uncoordinated. It isn’t, of course: it’s simply how our minds have been programmed and attenuated to conventional note sequences and melodies, and Beyondddddd The Notessssss trashes everything with a joyful abandon. Once you come to accept this, and to reattenuate your own listening to accommodate this strangeness, which offsets the balance, sets one lurching and feeling bewildered, it becomes somewhat easier to accept.

‘Gotcha II’ commences side two where ‘Gotcha I’ / side one leaves off, but tumbles slowly into altogether more spartan territory. Each note hangs. There are moments of silence. Deep, rumbling, stomping piano arrives, dinosaur-like. It’s primitive, but strangely magnificent, carrying as it does a simplicity which is rare. And this simplicity brings with it a sort of honesty. I’m fumbling for words, here, for reasons which aren’t even readily explainable. Towards the end, notes cascade and tumble over one another, culminating in a frenzy of clattering, broken notes, and it’s bewildering.

Bewildering is perhaps the most apposite description of Beyondddddd The Notessssss. The title track, which draws the curtain with a five-minute finale, offers something approaching minimal jazz – with the emphasis on minimal. And jazz.

Beyondddddd The Notessssss goes way beyond the notes, and, indeed, way beyond the rational.

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Wardruna – Birna

Posted: 25 January 2025 in Albums, Reviews
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Music For Nations / Sony – 24th January 2025

Christopher Nosnibor

While studying English Literature at university, I undertook a module on Anglo-Saxon literature. It was fascinating to learn the etymology of certain words, and the way in which commonplace phrases came to be, and one thing which struck me was the reverence the Anglo-Saxons held for the bear, with not only words like ‘berserk’ deriving from a fierce, angry bear, with armies placing their berserkers at the front of their lines, foaming at the mouth and gnashing their teeth on their shields to strike fear in the hearts of their opponents, but the phrase ‘lick into shape’ came from the belief that bear cubs were born as balls of fur, and their mothers would literally lick them into the shape of a bear. In so many aspects of life, through history, humans have aspired to be like bears.

It is this which provides the central theme of Wardruna’s sixth album, as the accompanying notes expand upon:

The bear frequently figures in the oldest myths of mankind in the northern hemisphere, and many indigenous people still regard this animal as a totem, honouring it with rites and songs. It was once our respected guardian, our guide to edible plants and berries, a creature we both feared and admired. Although the bear from the very beginning has constituted a threat to our own lives and those of our livestock, humans have always identified with the bear in various ways. If you skin the animal, its body underneath the fur strongly resembles that of man, which may be a reason legend has it the bear in fact originated from humans, and for thousands of years we have strived for its strength and wit. In some cultures, “treading the path of the bear” means pursuing what you’re truly meant to do in life.

Because this is a Wardruna album, it taps into ancient mythologies on a level which goes far deeper than some kind of conceptual cosplay or superficial skirting around the subject. Wardruna has a way of tapping into a spirituality which resides in our very bones, our DNA. Their music resonates, powerfully, in ways which are hard to articulate beyond the fact it stirs something deep inside. Birna is more than an album, it is a force of nature distilled in musical form.

‘Hertan’ begins with a thudding rhythm like a heartbeat which provides the backdrop to a spoken word introduction and, suddenly, a swelling surge of sound, clattering wooden-sounding percussion and bold choral chants. Immediately, it evokes images of a primal heritage, of rituals performed on moorlands around open fires, animal skins, ceremonies exulting pagan spirits, and a connection with the earth which transcends words alone.

The title track is simply immense, a colossal, powerful blast of sound, which conveys the strength – and also the gentleness – of the she-bear. It’s perhaps here where they most successfully articulate the appeal and fascination of the bear, a creature capable of the most divergent behaviours, so caring to its cubs, but would absolutely annihilate anything when threatened. There’s a reason why you don’t, as they say, poke the bear.

The fifteen-and-a-half-minute ‘Dvaledraumar’ (Dormant Dreams) enters rather more ambient territory, lunging into slow droning darkness after a hooting call like that of a conch shell being blown, or similar. Along with ‘Jord til Ljos’ (Earth to Light), it forms ‘a two-song meditation creates a joint hibernation between animal and listener’. It’s somewhat sad, that we haven’t taken cues from the bear to hibernate. It doesn’t feel natural to drag oneself out of bed and trudge to work in darkness, when it’s often cold, wet (or snowy, depending on geography), and windy. Before industrialisation, before electricity, working hours were limited by daylight, and in feudal times, serfs would effectively hibernate, unable to work the field during the winter months. I’m certainly not saying that this was a golden age of any kind, but capitalism and technology have certainly failed to deliver the lives they promised with a wealth of leisure time.

Sitting and reflecting on this, the rippling, repetitive melodies of these two tracks washing over me, I once again find myself envisaging dense, expansive woodlands, a habitat thick with vegetation, and sparse with population, a world before humans lost touch with nature and even humanity, and fucked everything up so badly. And I suppose it’s this desire to rewind the clock, to unfuck the planet, to undo centuries of mistakes to rediscover that which lies subconsciously in our hearts, which Wardruna connect with so perfectly.

Following this extended hibernative segment, they return first with ‘Himinndotter’ which evolves from being sparse and folksy to a frenetic frenzy of tribal percussion and a powerful choral refrain. ‘Tretale’ presents a haunting rumble with a breathy, hypnotic vocal. It’s built around a low, deep-lunged organ-like drone, but cuts back to some hypnotic passages where the insistent beat stands almost alone.

The eight-and-a-half-minute ‘Lyfjaberg’ brings the album – which is epic in every way – to a close with a slow, hypnotic beat and repetitive instrumentation and vocal chorus. It draws you in in such a way as to suspend time and space: it’s hard not to get lost in the moment, but also, ultimately, in time. I suspect I’ve described Wardruna’s music as ‘transcendental’ before, and more than once… but is the word which most accurately describes their music. Yes, THE word – and perhaps the only one. Because this… this is something else.

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Vomitriste – Black Abyss Invocation

Posted: 24 January 2025 in Albums, Reviews
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Roman Numeral / Machine Tribe Recordings – 24th January 2025

Christopher Nosnibor

Having premiered ‘Opilione’ just over a week ago as a taster for this blackest of black sonic expulsions, I’ve now had some time to digest the album in its entirety. And it’s an acrid, acidic tang of bile which burns the throat and scorches the trachea, and a bilious discomfort which emanates from every noxious moment of this absolutely hellish effort.

The Finnish duo’s Bandcamp simply describes them as ‘BLACK VOID NOISE’, and it’s hard to better that, really. Black Abyss Invocation, which essentially launches Vomitriste phase two, having drawn the curtain on phase one with the Droneworks (2022-2024) compilation.

Black Abyss Invocation is relentlessly dark. In fact, it goes beyond being merely ‘dark’: darkness connotes an absence of light. Here, Vomitriste create a negative balance, subtracting, subtracting, endlessly subtracting, sucking out both light and air, like a black hole which drags the listener into a vortex of perpetual purgatory, while hanging over the smouldering pits of hell.

‘Opilione’ is entirely representative: each of the album’s six compositions last between five and eight minutes, providing ample time for the agonizing atmospherics to wrack every one of the senses in the most torturous fashion, and seeming to manifest in physical ways as you find your skin crawling and your muscles tense.

The album opens with ‘Void Sermon’ – a rumbling blanket of sound that’s between dark ambience and harsh noise wall at first, before vocals – rasping, demonic screams, shit-your-pants inhuman – roar in before the very bowels of hell open wide and drag you down, down, down. Void Sermon? Void bowels would be equally apt.

From here, it’s less about progression, as slow subtraction. Listening to Black Abyss Invocation, I find myself reflecting on various methods of punishment and torture from throughout the ages – rat torture, for instance, or coffin torture, or the breaking wheel. The slow, agonising tortures which almost invariably resulted in a protracted and extremely painful death. Or perhaps, one I discovered on a visit to York dungeons, the ‘blood eagle’, referenced in Norse literature. Certainly, by the arrival of ‘Fleshwards’, on feels as if one’s ribs are being severed from the spine with a sharp tool, and the lungs pulled through the opening to create a pair of “wings” – because this is brutal, cacophonous noise and howls of anguish echo from subterranean caverns without mercy. To survive to the end of the album is to still be awake and alive in the hell that is life on earth in 2025.

Black Abyss Invocation is truly the stuff of nightmares: there is no escape from the abyss, and there is none more black.

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Lawrence English – Even The Horizon Knows Its Bounds

Posted: 23 January 2025 in Albums, Reviews
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Room40 – 31st January 2024

Christopher Nosnibor

It begins with a rumbling roar, like a persistent strong wind rushing over moorland, before ripples of piano delicately drift over it to altogether calmer effect – although the roar continues beneath. The juxtaposition brings a balance of sorts.

Just a few days ago, I wrote on Circuits From Soft Frequencies by Jamie Lee, which was recorded among the sound mirrors at RAF Denge, in Kent, and touched on the fascinating nature of these structures, and opined that ‘often, the most alien and seemingly otherworldly creations are, in fact, man-made’.

Lawrence English’s latest work seems to contribute to this dialogue, albeit approaching from a different perspective.

‘I like to think that sound haunts architecture,’ he writes, and goes on to remark, ‘It’s one of the truly magical interactions afforded by sound’s immateriality. It’s also something that has captivated us from the earliest times. It’s not difficult to imagine the exhilaration of our early ancestors calling to one another in the dark cathedral like caves which held wonder, and security, for them.’

English also writes of the relationship between space and place, and how ‘Spaces hold the opportunity for place, which we create moment to moment, shaped by our ways of sense-making… Whilst the architectural and material features of space might remain somewhat constant, the people, objects, atmospheres, and encounters that fill them are forever collapsing into memory.’

The album comprises eight numbered segments, ETHKIB I – VIII, all formed using fundamentally the same sound palette, and which flow into one another seamlessly to create a single, continuous piece, which is best experienced without interruption.

The piano and the undercurrents, which evolve from that initial roar to altogether softer drones which drift, mist-like, develop an interplay whereby the dominant sound switches, sometimes with one or the other fading out completely – but this happens almost imperceptibly… It isn’t that you don’t listen to the music, but the preoccupation of the listening experience is absorbing the atmosphere, and it possesses almost a physicality. By ‘ETHKIB V’ the sounds has built such a density that the sensation is like being buffeted. Amidst the deep drones, there are, in the distant, whirring hums and elongated scrapes which evoke images of disused mills and abandoned factories. Perhaps there’s an element of the power of suggestion, but it’s difficult to contemplate purely abstract visualisations, or nature without some human aspect somewhere in the frame.

The soundscapes English creates are evocative, and in parts, at least, haunting – although ultimately, what haunts us is our own experience, our thoughts, our memories. And in this way, from space, we create our own sense of place, and tie things to them in an attempt to make sense of the world as we experience it.

By ‘ETHKIB VIII’, it’s the piano alone which rings out, in a reversal of the opening, and some of the mid-sections, ending on a single, low note, repeated, held, reverberating, leaving, ultimately silence, and a pause for reflection.

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Weed Demon – The Doom Scroll

Posted: 22 January 2025 in Albums, Reviews
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Electric Valley Records – 31st January 2025

Christopher Nosnibor

The four-piece ‘sludge ‘n’ roll stoner metal band’ from Columbus, OH, come with the description of being ‘the audio equivalent of bong water spilled on a Ouija board’

The Doom Scroll – such an obvious but well-placed piece of punning – is their third album, and lands a full decade after their debut EP – or as they put it, they ‘exhaled a cloud of riffs over the doom metal scene with their debut EP, Stoned to Death… [and] since then, they’ve consistently delivered a steady dose of sludgy, groove-laden stoner doom potent enough to make Beelzebub himself bang his horns.’

For this outing, they promise ‘a reinvention of their signature sludge ‘n’ roll style of doom. Equal parts unrelenting and crushing, yet infused with heavy blues-inspired riffage, this new chapter sees Weed Demon expanding their sonic horizons like never before… Expect doom, gloom, sludge, thrash, death, blues, and even a dash of dungeon synth for good measure.’

That this is an album which contains just five tracks (six if you get the vinyl, which features a cover of Frank Zappa’s ‘Willy the Pimp’) is a fair indication of its form and the duration of said tracks: apart from a couple of interlude-pieces, they’re all six-plus minute sprawlers, with the colossal ‘Coma Dose’ spreading out over more than nine and a half minutes.

And so it is that after the slightly pretentious and proggy-sounding synth-led instrumental intro that is the woozy, wibbly, ‘Acid Dungeon’, they’re thundering in with the rifftastic ‘Tower of Smoke’. It’s a quintessential stoner-doom effort, a mid-paced slab of thick, distorted riffage with a strong Sabbath via Melvins vibe to it. It’s big on excess – of course it is. It simply wouldn’t work without the widdly flourishes that spin their way up from the dense, grainy overdrive that just keeps on ploughing away. And it keeps going on – and on. As it should, of course. It simply wouldn’t be befitting to batter a leaden riff for three or four minutes – you can’t mong out to that.

‘Coma Dose’ starts out gently with some desert rock twangs and a shuffling beat that’s almost a dance on the beach kind of groove, and there are – finally – some drawling vocals low in the mix. A couple of minutes in, of course, the riff lands, and the vocals switch from spacey prog to growly metal, and just like that, things get dark and they get heavy. But for all the weight, there’s still a floaty trippiness about it, a softer, mellowed-out edge: it’s heavy, but it’s not harsh, or by any means aggressive. There are some flamboyant drum fills and a super-gritty bass break over the song’s protracted duration, and at times, it sounds as if the batteries are starting to run low as it slows to a thick, treacly crawl and Jordan Holland’s vocals sound as if he’s being garrotted – and again, this is all on point.

There are elements of hardcore to the shouted vocals and pummelling power of ‘Roasting the Sacred Bones’, while ‘Dead Planet Blues’ brings a quite delicate blues-rock twist and even a hint of Alice in Chains circa Jar of Flies.

Rather than push hard at the parameters of the genre, Weed Demon nudge at the edges in all directions, and this works in their favour. There’s plenty here to keep diehard fans of all things sludgy, stonery, and doomy content without straying into territories that don’t sit well, but then there’s enough to make it different and interesting.

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Watch My Dying – Egyenes Kerőlő

Posted: 21 January 2025 in Albums, Reviews
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24th January 2025

Christopher Nosnibor

These are dark days. I feel as if I’ve written words to this effect a lot in recent months and years. It would perhaps be rather too much to expect there to be the sunrise of a new, optimistic dawn breaking over the horizon, but when there is nothing but the glow of flames beneath a pall of smoke on so many very real horizons, any sun on the metaphorical horizon is eclipsed by a billowing pother and clouds of ash. And then, last night, I felt my heart sink yet deeper still as Donald Trump signed away the protection of the Arctic in his quest for ‘liquid gold’, and declared a ‘state of emergency’ over the Mexican border and promised mass-deportations – ‘millions and millions’, being his megalomaniacal mantra, while the man who owns him, the richest man on the planet, who seeks not only world domination, but galactic domination, threw Nazi salutes to a huge crowd of fanatics.

Fighting the urge to assume a foetal position on the hearth rug in front of the fire and stay there for the next four years in the hope there may still be a world after that, I poured a strong winter ale and took some time to sift through my submissions for something that might make suitable listening.

Listening to light music in the face of such darkness and despondency feels inappropriate, somehow, so stumbling upon the latest album by Watch My Dying felt fortuitous. Extreme metal has a way of providing a means of escape, sometimes.

According to their bio, ‘Watch My Dying has been a cornerstone of the Hungarian metal scene for 25 years, a hidden gem for international fans of extreme metal. Formed in 1999 in Hungary, the band quickly became a defining force in extreme tech/groove metal throughout the early 2000s… Known for their philosophical and socio-critical Hungarian lyrics, WMD stands out in the extreme metal genre, with excerpts of their work inspiring novels and poetry in Hungary.’

It’s the title track which opens the album, with a slow, atmospheric build, before heavy, trudging guitars enter the fray, and it’s only in final throes that all fury breaks loose.

While there’s no shortage of archetypally death- and black-metal riffs, WMD forge a claustrophobic atmosphere with chunky, chugging segments, enriched by layers of cold, misty synths, and some thick, nu-metal slabs of overdrive, too: ‘Kopogtatni egy tükrön’ is exemplary. ‘Jobb nap úgysem lehet’ provides an interlude of heavy drone and hypnotic tribal drumming before one of the album’s most accessible tracks, ‘Napköszörű’ crashes in. It’s hardly a party banger, but brings together industrial and metal with a certain theatricality, finished with some impressively technical details – but none of it’s overdone. ‘Minden rendben’ is more aggrotech than anything specifically metal, and it’s a banger.

Egyenes Kerőlő isn’t nearly as dark as a whole as the first few songs suggest, but it’s still plenty heavy and leads the listener on something of a sonic journey. They cram a lot into the eleven tracks, especially when considering that the majority are under four minutes, with three clocking in around the minute mark. It’s certainly varied, and while not all the songs have quite the same appeal – the last track, ‘Utolsó Fejezet’, borders on Eurovision folk – the fact that they’re in no way predictable is a strong plus.

So many technical players are so busy showcasing their skills that they forget the value of songs. This is not the case with Watch My Dying: the groove element is strong, and there are melodies in the mix – just not in the vocals. The end result is more accessible and uplifting than I would ever have imagined. I almost forgot that the world is ending for a good twenty minutes.

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Jamie Lee – Circuits From Soft Frequencies

Posted: 18 January 2025 in Albums, Reviews
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Mortality Tables – 17th January 2025

Christopher Nosnibor

Given Mortality Tables’ liking for location-based field recordings, Circuits From Soft Frequencies makes for a comfortable fit in their rapidly-expanding catalogue.

As the liner notes explain, Circuits From Soft Frequencies originated ‘as a four-channel sound art installation developed using field recordings from sites around the South East of England.’

‘Drawing on soundtracks taken from 70s minimalist sci-fi films, both the samples used and the overall composition are based on different terrains encountered during Jamie’s field trips, describing huge shingle beaches, swamps and clifftops. The installation which was exhibited at MK Calling in Milton Keynes during the summer of 2024 also consisted of fabricated ‘cymbal speakers’, incorporating sensor-based technology to respond to changes in their environment.’

The cover art depicts one of the ‘sound mirrors’ which were constructed at various sites around the UK shortly between the world wars as an experimental early warning system, as a precursor to radar. While there are sound mirrors at two sites in Kent, those at Denge are the most renowned and best preserved, and it was here, one assumes, that the recordings of percussion, ‘incorporating cymbals, bells, gongs and clocks’, took place.

The installation, the notes go on to explain, ‘repurposes four cabinet speakers to transmit sounds collected during field trips to sites featuring [the] huge, concrete sound mirrors’.

This release contains a nineteen-and-a-half-minute recording of the installation, and highly atmospheric it is, too. Ther ticking watch not only keeps time, but gives a sense of tension and urgency which runs fast, in contrast to the long, low, reverby thuds and slow splashes of cymbals. That everything – apart from the watch – sounds somehow dulled, muffled – only adds to the atmosphere. It’s likely that this eerie, swampy echoiness is the product of the location, which features not only the thirty-foot concave ‘ear’ shown on the cover, but a two-hundred foot concrete wall. Images of the site stir the imagination, and one gets the impression to actually be in the presence of these strange-looking objects must be truly awe-inspiring. The sounds which emanate from the speakers while listening to Circuits From Soft Frequencies evoke the same sense of the alien, the otherworldly. Spurs of noise occasionally burst through, interjections of dissonance pulse through the building layers of sonic collage to unsettling effect.

It’s a reminder that often, the most alien and seemingly otherworldly creations are, in fact, man-made – and often connected in some way to war, and mankind’s destructive tendencies. I was struck, not so long ago, by the quite chilling experience of touring the cold war bunker in York – not a place of refuge, but a cramped and claustrophobic subterranean observatory which, in the event of the fulfilment of its purpose, would assure the deaths of its crew.

The sound swells and glitches, scratches and hums, and at times exudes a nightmarish quality that makes your muscles tense and your scalp tighten and crawl. It’s a remarkable piece of work, but one of those where the end comes as something of a relief.

AA

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Beneath A Steel Sky – Cleave

Posted: 15 January 2025 in Albums, Reviews
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24th January 2025

Christopher Nosnibor

And still the impact of the pandemic continues to loom. Still projects conceived and commenced during lockdown are emerging. One may say that there are two forms of long covid – and this is by no means to belittle or diminish those who have spent the last few years utterly sapped of energy and suffering the long-term physical effects – in that the psychological impact stretches on and is something which has been largely overlooked. The fact that here in Britain, long-term sickness absence from work is at an all-time high and people are dropping out of work at unprecedented rates – while, coincidentally, employers are mandating returns to the office – is a clear indicator that something is awry. And according to their bio, Beneath A Steel Sky were ‘Born out of the bleakness and uncertainty of the Coronavirus lockdown in 2020 [and] began as an instrumental project and has since evolved into a full band ensemble.

Just look at that cover art. There is something simultaneously ugly and awesome about the tightly-packed squalor of large cities. It’s both the best and worst of human ‘progress’. It’s as if we’ve engineered ourselves a future – even a present – of pure dystopia in which almost everyone gets to live out some type of personal hell while clawing their way through the constraints placed on everyday life buy capitalism.

Beneath A Steel Sky describe their sound as ‘retro futurist noir post metal/rock type noise’, and it’s fair. The future we once imagined is now in the past, and we’re post most musical forms now. It’s unreasonable to expect anything truly new, and Beneath A Steel Sky do at least offer an interesting hybrid.

The first piece, ‘The sky above the port was the colour of television, tuned to a dead channel’, is as post-rock as the verbose title implies. With utterly ravaged vocals, low in the mix, it calls to mind Profane, and a bunch of bands whose names elude me in the moment – because there was a time in the mid-noughties where every other band was offering some take on the post-metal template and things do blur a little. But also, this is what happens with so much music: anyone who says there’s no good new music being released now is simply wrong.

‘Vanguard’ brings a heavy chug and widescreen atmospherics, and while there are vague allusions to more commercial leanings, their pitch as being inspired by Isis, Aereogramme, Cult of Luna, Cave In, Russian Circles, and Mogwai seem reasonable – although having caught Aereogramme in Glasgow circa 2003 and found then tedious as hell, I can confirm that Beneath A Steel Sky, while focusing more on the progressive aspect than the math, are infinitely better. The compositions balance delicate, wistful, reflective passages of chiming guitar with some surging riffery. ‘Everyone You’ve Ever Known’ is a magnificent slice of aching melancholy which simply explodes in the final couple of minutes, hitting with a staggering force. ‘The Infinite Silence that Follows the Absolute Truth’, at almost seven and a half minutes long, is the epitome of their slow-building, atmospheric, and expansive songsmithery. It’s almost four and a half minutes before the weight crashes in on a tidal wave of distortion and gut-wrenching anguish. It hits hard sonically, but still conveys a powerful emotional heft. In places, I’m reminded of Oceansize, a band who are sadly missed and who stood out in the early years of the prog revival. But the metal elements in combination with the epic soundscapes are reminiscent of Amenra, only with a very different vocal style.

The big bass sound is the real power here. The guitar chugs and chimes, and the are rich textures galore, but it’s that thick bass which makes it.

The compositions are textured, layered, and incredibly dynamic. But for all the growling, grunting metal heft, Cleave is strong on emotional delicacy. In between the magical, ranging passages, there is monumental brutal force. An album of contrasts, Cleave is a work of complexity and detail. It’s by no means immediate, but it is rewarding – a definite grower.

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Toru – Velours Dévorant

Posted: 13 January 2025 in Albums, Reviews
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Cruel Nature Records – 14th January 2025

Christopher Nosnibor

Released on various formats by various labels in different countries, the latest offering from genre-blasting French instrumental trio Toru is being released on cassette (and download) by Northumberland’s Cruel Nature in an edition of 65. Following on from 2020’s eponymous debut and a split release with Teufelskeller, which saw Toru join forces with CR3C3LL3, this time around, they’re different again, and having been featured as album of the day at Bandcamp Central just the other day, the signs are that Velours Dévorant could see them significantly expand their fanbase – and deservedly so.

Velours Dévorant featires five V-themed tracks defined by some riotous riffmongering and big, dirty, overdriven guitar noise with tempo shifts galore. Blasting in with ‘VHS’, it’s a manic ride through waves of tempestuous, bludgeoning racket from the very start. Trilling feedback fulfils the duty of a lead guitar line, while a shuddering, ribcage-rattling bass tears its way out from the chaos atop some heavy, but highly skilled jazz-inspired drumming.

Some will likely describe their sonic blitzkrieg as ‘experimental’, but that’s something of a misrepresentation, in that it suggests a lack of coherence, a haphazard and unplanned approach. The sudden stops and starts, the moments where a chord hangs, suspended in the air for just the briefest moment before the fractionally-delayed snare smash or cymbal crash, where the three of them simultaneously draw breath in just a split second… those microcosmic moments require remarkable precision – unquestionably, intuition is key, but rehearsal too. The skill is to make it sound haphazard, unpredictable, to keep the listener on the edge of their seat, buttocks clenched, while having it all worked out. Every composition contains moments which feel like the sonic equivalent of watching trapeze artists, where you tense and momentarily stop breathing as they fly through the air, seemingly in slow-motion, tense in case they fail to grab on: will they keep it together, or will everything collapse into a mess of sludge like a sewer rupturing and spewing a fountain of slurry?

These are long tracks – the shortest is over five and a half minutes – with infinite twists and turns. The skewed, surging jazz-grunge of ‘Voiles’ – a whopping eleven and a half minutes in duration – is representative, and encapsulates the essence of the album. The guitars squall and screed in a showcase of noise-rock par excellence, while the bass lurches and snarls, grooves and grinds, and the percussion is simply wild. It’s like listening an instrumental version of every track by the Jesus Lizard all at once. There’s a low-impact, atmospheric mid-section that rolls and rumbles, yawns and splashes… lazily would e the wrong word, but it takes its time, with bent guitar chords twanging like elastic bands, while the sparse percussion meanders seemingly without aim. But then it all reshapes and takes form once more, building, building, and then exploding so hard as to detonate so hard as to blow your eyeballs out of their sockets. Fuck, when these guys hit the pedals, they really do go all out.

I’ve heard a plethora of zany noise-rock acts, and have loved many – most of whom are so obscure that to reference them or draw comparisons would be the most pointless exercise imaginable: ‘hey, wow, this band I’ve not heard of sound like a bunch of other bands I’ve never heard of, that’s informative!’.

On Velours Dévorant, Toru take the tropes of post-rock, with its protracted delicate segments and slow-building atmosphere, and incorporate them within a noise-rock setting, with the result being epic tunes with some incredibly graceful, and ultimately poignant expanses, pressed tight against some of the most explosive overloading, overdriven abrasion going. And then, of course, there are the jazz elements: ‘Volutes’ is the apex of jazz/grunge hybridization, and it works so well. Not sold on Nirvana meets The Necks? Trust me.

The fourteen-minute title track is… special. It is, in many respects, the evolution of post-rock circa 2004. Chiming guitars, infinite space, haunting atmosphere. The intro is magnificent, beautiful. Her Name is Calla’s sprawling ‘Condor and River’ comes to mind. That use of space, that simmering tension, that sense of something growing which is more than… well, it’ s simply more. There are things hidden. When the riffing lets rip, holy shit, does the riffing let rip, fully shredding blasts of distortion tear through with obliterating force. The track feels like an album in its own right.

It seems like a while since I’ve felt compelled to describe an album as ‘epic’ – but this… this is next-level epic.

AA

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Please Close Your Eyes – Music for Floating

Posted: 12 January 2025 in Albums, Reviews
Tags: , , , , , ,
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Mortality Tables – 10th January 2025

Christopher Nosnibor

Ambient music is, in many ways, music for reflection. Or perhaps, music which provides the backdrop to reflection. Time was that I had very little interest in ambient music, but I have come to appreciate it has having quite significant functions, whether by the design of the artists or not. Reviewing requires a level of focus and attention that regular music listening does not, and when it comes to ambient works, a greater level of attention is necessary: I feel there is a requirement to tilt the ears and pluck out the details, the textures, to venture into the depths to extrapolate the moods and meanings. Sometimes, I fail, and find my mind wanders down different paths as space opens up through sonic suggestion, and random associations are triggered completely unexpectedly. Regardless, ambient music is generally best received in darkness, or by candlelight. Please… close your eyes and absorb without distraction.

As Oliver Richards – aka Please Close Your Eyes – writes, “Music for Floating is a document of transition. It collects pieces that were made over a three year period, nearly three years ago. They were all made before my last Mortality Tables release, ‘Nibiru’ / ‘Heaven On The Fourth Floor’…It’s a consciously-composed modern classical album. I have no classical training at all, but when I was making it, I set out with the intention of composing for the first time, consciously and intentionally. The music I made before under the name Goodparley was all created improvisationally and instinctively. With this I would step back and ask myself, ‘What am I actually going for here?’”

I ask myself this question often, and not just about creative endeavours, but life generally. How many of us really have any idea, about anything? Music for Floating, then, provides a magnificent soundtrack for contemplation and reflection, on the world, on life, and all things. But it’s not simply an ambient work: it’s a collection of pieces which span a broad sonic range, and while gentle and mellow throughout, there’s much more to it than drifting clouds and soothing sonic washes.

There’s something of an underwater, soft-edged soporificness about ‘The Moment Before We Sleep’, and it’s one of those pieces which lends itself to immersion and letting oneself cut adrift. In contrast, ‘The Hollow’ brings a busier, more bustling feel, not to mention something of a progressive vibe, as synth piano ripples and rolls with waves of energy. Augmented by synth strings and other elongated, organ-like sounds, the seven-minute ‘Piano for Floating’ is a standout, compositionally, structurally, and sonically. It’s subtle, layered, and casts the listener adrift on a rippling expanse of tranquil sound. Music like this has a profound effect that’s both physical and mental: you can feel your spine elongating, your muscles gradually becoming less knotted. I find myself yawning, not out of boredom, but through a rare relaxation.

At under three minutes, ‘Deeper Blue’ provides an interlude at what stands as the notional start of side two, before the six-minute ‘Heaven, Faced: or, The Fairies’ Parliament’, and the epic finale, the nine-minute ‘The Time Before the Last’. The former traces shimmering contrails through an azure sky; it’s the sound of slowly rippling aroura, of silent snowfall in a windless winter sky, of your mind spinning in amazement at the wonder of natural phenomena… while the latter brings slow abstract drifts which evoke the vastness of space, eternal in its expanse. It’s bewildering, but so, so calm… Time evaporates, and nothing matters. There is nothing.

AA

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