Posts Tagged ‘Jazz’

zeitkratzer productions / Karlrecords – 22nd September 2023

Christopher Nosnibor

SCARLATTI represents something of a departure for zeitkratzer, the neoclassical collective headed by Reinhold Friedl, master of the prepared piano and a renowned avant-garde composer in his own right. While their performance and recordings usually focus on modern composers and avant-gardists spanning Stockhausen and John Cage via Whitehouse and Lou Reed, with a reinterpretation of Metal Machine Music, here they turn their attention to the altogether more historical figure of Domenico Scarlatti (1685-1757). He is best known – although this is relative – for composing some five hundred and fifty-five keyboard sonatas, and his being a progenitor of classical music. But a large portion of his work went unpublished in huis lifetime, and much has only been available sporadically since.

As the notes which accompany the album explain, ‘Little is known about Domenico Scarlatti… His music is, so to speak, left to its own devices: free, cheeky, playful, sonorous, surprising… Harmonically strolling again and again into unforeseen regions, the ear leads, not the theory; and also the fingers get their right: playful and haptic it goes. Scarlatti explained, “since nature has given me ten fingers and my instrument provides employment for all, I see no reason why I should not use all ten of them.”

But Scarlatti does not contain music by Scarlatti. Instead, the six tracks presented here are all composed by Friedl in response to Scarlatti’s work.

As such, this is much a celebration of Scarlatti’s ideas and approach to composition and so the explanation of the process and thinking behind it bears quoting: ‘Freedom, friction and listening pleasure instead of convention: “He knew quite well that he had disregarded all the rules of composition in his piano pieces, but asked whether his deviation from the rules offended the ear? He believes there is almost no other rule than that of not offending the only sense whose object is music – the ear.”

‘Reinhold Friedl applied this principle and composed the music for a choreography by dance company Rubato. Dance music drawn from Scarlatti, who was so inspired by dance music. The material of the piano sonata F-minor K.466 is twisted anew in all its richness, shifted back and forth, declined, frozen, noisified, sound structures extracted, floating. Those who know the sonata, will more than smell it’s [sic] shadows.’

The six pieces are indeed varied, in terms of mood and form. ‘lias’ is booming, droning, woozy, slow discordant jazz, low, slow, and with lengthy pauses. It’s not something anyone can dance to, and rather than light and playful, it feels dark and sombre. This is less true of the altogether sparser, but stealthily atmospheric ‘muget’.

‘pissenlit’ blasts in with churning industrial noise, a snarling blast that lurches and thunders, crashes and pounds withy relentless brutality. It’s clearly as far removed from the music of the seventeenth century as is conceivable, but beside the lilting piano and quivering, droning strings and subsequent stop-start levity of ‘reine des prés’ the sequencing of the pieces serves to highlight Scarlatti’s versatility, if not necessarily his predilection for playfulness. The playfulness manifests differently and unexpectedly here: ‘pissenlit’ is in fact the French word for ‘dandelion’, a plant often associated with a certain element of fun, of lightness, so the fact that this piece is three and a half minutes of gut-punching abrasive noise worthy of Prurient or Consumer Electronics is illustrative of the disparity between expectation and actuality.

Discord and discomfort abounds as drones and strings tangle amongst one another, heaving and wheezing and occasionally offering glorious, sun-hued vistas through the breaks in the widely varied forms, which feel elastic, and as if Friedl and co are stretching the fabric of the material to see just how much it will give. And it turns out, there is a fair bit of room. ‘reine des prés’ explores space, the gaps and pauses between the notes, and feels like a sort of musical cat-and-mouse which would equally work as soundtrack piece, but it has a cartoonish quality which means it’s more Tom and Jerry than anything else. But it is by no means flippant, throwaway. Entertainment is serious business, after all.

‘violette des marais’ brings pomp and drama… while the final track, ‘astis’, is skittish, playful but also frustrating in its hesitant, halting structure.

Scarlatti is interesting, entertaining, and bold, going out on a limb to present such an unconventional interpretation of a historical artist’s career. But this is largely the purpose of zeitkratzer: together, they re-present music, excavating the archives but presenting them through a prism of contemporary and avant-gardism, with jazz leanings but without being jazz in the way most would interpret it. In short, zeitkratzer continue to push and redefine musical boundaries, and long may they do so.

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Tzadik Records – 8th September 2023

Christopher Nosnibor

Everything seems to trigger some recollection or another. This is perhaps one of the greater pleasures of interacting with art in any form. As a child, I recall an old bagatelle board sitting in the shed. It always struck me as a quaint item – essentially a wooden board with nails stuck in it, some kind of hybrid between billiards and pinball, with a pile of very heavy, marble-sized metal balls.

If this triggered recollection seems random, that’s because it is, something beyond my control. But then despite everything, it comes to seem relevant, as Vol. 16 – which presents, as the press release puts it, ‘Big Band interpretations of John Zorn’s Book of Bagatelles’. It goes on to explain how ‘Zorn commissioned London-based Jewish composer, Eastmond to make an album from a selection of his 300 pieces: Book of Bagatelles. Arranged for 12 Musicians, the ensemble features some of Europe’s most celebrated creative musicians and improvisors alongside young rising stars of the UK scene.’

My musical palette has certainly expanded through the years, and I have JG Thirlwell to thank for this, as well as Gallon Drunk, for opening my eyes to wild and near infinite possibilities in terms of incorporating orchestral and brass elements into rock and guitar-based music. Everyone needs a route in to forms which aren’t readily digestible and certainly aren’t the norm for most.

There is nothing that’s especially digestible about this raging, ragged, woodwind-blasting behemoth, and that’s as intended. Actually, that’s not entirely true. There are moments, near the start, of the ten-minute opener, ‘Bagatelle #256’ which are immensely palatable in a smooth jazzy way, the kind of smooth jazzy way that might have you nodding along, and your friends saying ‘nice’ in a raspy whisper. But while there are some toe-tapping moments, the majority of this release is eye-popping, bursting as it is with some crazy shit that flies off in all directions at once.

There are some monster stomping moments, ‘Bagatelle #78’ is a proper full on dinosaur thump, and contrasts with the meandering drone of the next track, ‘Bagatelle #143’.

It’s all going on here, and sometimes it feels as if it belongs to a cartoon soundtrack, while at others it sounds like all-out sensory overload. There are some rather nice moments, expansive explorations of soundscapes while afford periods of laid-back-reflection. But then, there are as many moments of truly crazy shit, with everything exploding everywhere, highlighting insane range of this album.

If the climax of ‘Bagatelle #143’ would sit comfortably in the soundtrack to a cartoon, the start of ‘Bagatelle #63’sits in the bracket of headache-inducing wild jazz frenzy. And that’s something that this album quite unexpectedly highlights – the way in which there is no way of predicting the highs and lows and insane range that this album presents. When it’s chilled it’s nice; when it’s racing all over the shop, it’s fucking mental.

The Bagatelles – Vol.16 is all over the place, and it’s a truly wild ride. It goes from oompah to film soundtrack in an instant, and it’s impossible to keep up. And that’s its appeal.

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The Quietus

Christopher Nosnibor

It’s not that I like to brag, but I’ve been writing about Sly and the Family Drone since 2012, when they blew me away at the Brudenell in Leeds, with a chaotic, percussion-heavy, audience-participation-led performance (and since when my writing has improved and I’ve become a shade more sensitive, perhaps). Witnessing Matt Cargill standing aloft on a stack of amps while surrounded my members of the crowd battering drums distributed by the band was one of the most exhilarating experiences of my life, and I was an instant convert. In some respects, I was fortunate to witness it: in a recent interview, Cargill was at pains to stress that it’s one of those spontaneous things: “It doesn’t happen at every gig,” he warns. “And I don’t want it to become a thing that people expect or are disappointed when we don’t do it. There are times I’ve seen people write, ‘Bring your drumsticks!’ I’ve never said that and I don’t want you to do that! If we were doing it every night people would be, like, ‘Oh, fuck off! They’re doing their schtick.’”

It’s this spontaneity and true commitment to improvisation that is a significant part of the band’s appeal. You never know quite what you’re going to get, and there’s a sense that nor do they: it all unfolds in real-time.

Their subsequent releases since my introduction in 2012 have never disappointed, and for me, at least, the best thing about Sly is that they embrace the difference between the live and recorded media. As such the recordings are the recordings, the performances are the performances. Explaining the difference to The Quietus, Cargill says “It was nice to be able to do all that spatial and stereo stuff which we wouldn’t be able to do live,” he says. “Because of mics on drums and stuff, it just doesn’t really work in that way. So we were able to spend a bit of time just working on that and doing some quite weird-sounding drum stuff which I’m really happy with.” The same article also explains, ‘The passages of manipulated drumwork are bookended by the band performing together in full skronking and lumbering flow and, in a move that vaguely echoes the ecstasy of their live sets’ endings, it finishes with a warm and symphonic cacophony of horns. “It’s kind of a pieced together track but I think it works as an entire piece,” reflects Cargill.

They have forged a career – or perhaps eked one, on the breadline, with a cult reputation which exceeds the returns a fringe act can attain in this crappy climate, a climate whereby post-Brexit overseas travel is prohibitive and not just financially – from being far out. Embracing elements of jazz and noise and a whole spectrum beyond, it’s fair to say that this is an act who plough their own furrow, and for that, respect is due, and them some.

This latest release is – as ever – an interesting one. It’s a limited lathe-cut 12” released via The Quietus, a publication with an immense reputation for its championing of the weird and the wonderful, and which perhaps more than any online publication with a significant readership plugs the gap left when Sounds, and then Melody Maker ceased to be. For non-subscribers, it’s available digitally via the usual platforms.  The ones I don’t use or advocate. But I digress. ‘And Every Knife In This House Is Mine’ is Sly at their best.

As a single track – less a composition than an exploration – with a running time of twenty minutes, it’s an EP or an album by some bands’ standards, but what it ultimately is is an immersive experience which sees them make the most of having access to studio facilities to push their sound further in different directions.

It’s a shrill, rippling wave of feedback that pierces the eardrums in the opening seconds which announces its arrival before a tempest of crashing drums, wayward brass and extraneous noise deluges in, and more happens in the first forty seconds of this tune than the entirety of many albums. Shortly after, it settles into a thunderous groove, the rhythm section grindingly heavy while wild horns – Kaz Buckland’s alto sax and James Allsopp’s baritone sax interplay is a back-and-forth that is timed with perfect precision.

There’s a lot of reverb, and a lot of space here. They pull back from the brink of pure chaos and meander through some expansive gentler passages, before, each time, exploding into a wild crescendo. It’s hard to differentiate snarling electronics from barking vocal yelps , and there isn’t a second where there isn’t something happening. It’s impossible to maintain a commentary on this sequentially.

A tumult of noise, bleeps and glitches, bloops and whirls, all fuse to form a wild cacophony, and it’s pure bliss to yield to this sonic tidal wave. But over the course of the track’s twenty minutes, there are constant ebbs and flows, the lower-level churning swashes rendering the louder segments and extended crescendo’s all the more impactful.

Things get decidedly Throbbing Gristle around the midway point, with swampy electronics and groaning low swoons taking things down, disrupted by random clatterings of percussion, before things take a turn for dark around the fifteen minute mark, with drones that sound like a 747 heading towards the ground in a nosedive… and then the climaxes with an extended jazz frenzy, and… woah.

Running through every form and texture, Every Knife In This House Is Mine is both exhilarating and exhausting… and everything you would expect from Sly and the Family Drone, and all that jazz.

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La Force, the mesmerizing solo project of Ariel Engle, who has spent more than a decade as one of Canada’s most sought-after musical collaborators has shared ‘October, the second single off her forthcoming album XO SKELETON out September 29 via Secret City Records.

The first offering – ‘Condition of Us’ – has been received warmly by fans and critics alike, CBC Music stating, “Engle’s voice, wise and warm, envelopes the track, [..] Her words wrap around the music in odd ways at times, like a stream of consciousness versus melody, but the love that’s beaming from Engle is undeniable,” Clash Magazine thinks it’s “the sound of an artist moving deliberately towards evolution.”, while Guy Garvey (Elbow) at BBC6 Music said it felt “accomplished, passionate and slick. I love it.” The song was also praised by Stereogum, Brooklyn Vegan and more. ‘October brings warmth to the XO SKELETON album – a lush, intimate song with incredible vocals embracing soul, smooth jazz and r&b – all the while reminding some of the “quiet storm” movement from the 90s.

“October is a time of harvest here [in Montreal]. It’s a time when we settle into darkness and leaves drop from the trees. It’s a time when we turn inward into our clothing and protective shells. It’s a song about the voices we internalize. People we can no longer see but whose voices and words live on inside us and shape us. It’s a song about the uncanny. A song about the cycles of nature, cycle of life. The song reminds us that despite our grand feelings we are just like animals and plants, destined to be born, to live and to die.” – La Force

The video for ‘October’ is directed by Ariel herself and Ali Vanderkruyk. Watch it here:

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Photo credit: Mary Rozzi

Christopher Nosnibor

My openness to different genres has expanded substantially in the fifteen years since I began reviewing as a ‘proper’ thing fifteen years ago, although it’s perhaps only more recently that I’ve come to truly be accommodating of, and even appreciate, overtly jazz works. It’s been quite a journey. But I still very much have limits of what I can handle, meaning I can dig Cinema Cinema’s free jazz period and the warped rackets of The Necks and Sly and the Family Drone, and recently, I’ve dug the new album by Anna von Hausswolff, but not Trondheim Jazz Orchestra & The MaXx. But I haven’t witnessed this kind of stuff live, really.

Presented with a rare opportunity to get out for some beer and live music, and with travel options rather limited, I found Leeds and York offering slim pickings for tonight, and since I wasn’t on the market for third-generation ‘nu’ metal, I elected to make a trip to Hyde park Book Club, a venue I know and like, despite the long hike from (and back to) the train station, and haven’t visited since August 2020, when Talkboy played an acoustic set. Those inter-lockdown socially-distanced seated gigs where going to the bar was against the rules were strange and feel like another lifetime now.

It’s also been a long time since I spent any real time in Leeds, with recent trips being confined to car / train – gig – home: today, I got to spend an afternoon wandering between pubs, and sitting and reading and people watching over a few leisurely pints. Living in the rather conservative, white, middle-class and socially un-diverse York, I’d forgotten about Leeds, fashion… There are still hipsters, lot of hipsters… and beards, lot of beards… and also mullets… Above ankle drainpipes… Cropped vests… Flat caps… and moustaches: lots of moustaches.

Leeds trio Slozbo Kollektiv are first up, and they serve up a set of the kind of clean, crisp, technical noodling that never really seems to get going or take form. or find a groove… Initially, I’m struck that the drumming is as tight as fuck and the way he handles his sticks is something worth watching. He uses an array of broken cymbals to create a whole host of far-out percussive effects, laying one atop the snare to create a different kind of clatter… But then how tight is the playing when there are no rhythms to speak of, only rattles and bursts of percussion? The set is defined by so much discord and busyness… I find my thoughts becoming as fractured as the compositions. There are, it would seem, extremely tight structures here, but they’re chaotic, esoteric, and non-linear…. Playing two guitars and a horn simultaneously… How many notes can they fit into a bar? Vocals seem fairly redundant, and I come to thinking that they sound like shit musicians pretending to be good ones by playing as many notes as fast as possible and not knowing when to stop. It made for the longest 40 minutes ever.

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Slozbo Kollektiv

Fergus Quill’s ensemble features the same fascinating drummer, and the bassist from Slozbo Kollektiv is the keyboardist, and again he removes his sandals to play. Compared to Slozbo Kollektiv, this lineup brings more groove, more noise, and a bit of space rock, but still a lot of wanking with the added ‘bonus’ of some big ska overtones. No. Just no. And using your thigh as a mute for a sax? Also no. It does kinda work, but looks ridiculous. Fergus’ counting on of not only the tracks, but each section after a meandering detour gets tiresome and predictable, too.

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Fergus Quill

Selecting lineups for gigs is not easy: a little bit of range can make for great energy and an interesting night, but too diverse and it simply doesn’t work. A lineup of similar bands is sure to draw punters who will likely appreciate all the bands on the bill, but can lead to a surfeit of sameness, something which can happen in any genre, but was particularly prevalent during the post-rock explosion circa 2004. By the time you’ve stood through three instrumental post-rock acts with their extended passages of chiming guitar interspersed with crescendos, you’re weary of it all by the time the headliners take the stage.

And so it is when Shatner’s Bassoon take the stage. I’m flagging, all jazzed out. Their material – and tonight they’re airing new material ahead of recording it for their forthcoming album – is more structured, atmospheric, building and forming shapes. There are some solid rhythms, moments where they actually settle into something for a time, instead of a constant explosion of sound in all directions all at once. They’ve clearly put the rehearsal time in, and there are all the tempo changes, enough to give you whiplash as they leap and lurch from one segment to another. People are really wigging out down the front, albeit mostly members of the support acts. It all starts to get a bit much after a time: they deal in discord, and the guitar sounds like twanging elastic bands. It’s when I see a guy nonchalantly bopping along from one space to another while clicking his fingers by way of applause I decide I’ve had enough.

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Shatner’s Bassoon

There’s no knocking their musical proficiency or adeptness in their field, but there’s noise and there’s noise, and it’s just how I’m wired that once thrills me and the other bewilders, and when you’ve got a bunch of people on stage all playing as hard and loud as they can but not, seemingly, all playing the same tune, I find it hard to dig. For all that, it was good to get out, and they definitely put on a show.

‘Sirhan Sirhan’ is the first track unveiled from the new Repo Man album Me Pop Now recorded at Giant Wafer Studios in Mid-Wales by Wayne Adams (Bear Bites Horse) in June 2022.

Me Pop Now is coming out July 24th. Me Pop Now will be physically released through Cruel Nature Records and Totality on a limited run of cassettes and CDs respectively.

‘Sirhan Sirhan’ is jazzy and proggy and groovy AF and a whole lot more besides. Check it here:

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Invada Records – 30th June 2023

Christopher Nosnibor

You know what? This never gets tired. I started reviewing live stuff in the 90s, but it wasn’t until 2008 I started receiving albums for review. Receiving albums ahead of release was a big deal back then: it made me feel somehow special. Advance promos probably meant something more then, on reflection. They would be, more likely than not., a single CD – or even a single-track CD – and my objective would be to get my review out ahead of, well, as many people as possible. It wasn’t so much about generating buzz as feeling a buzz.

I miss the steady drip of CDs and vinyl through the letterbox, although am coming to accept that space is an issue here, and if the endless bombardment of emails with downloads and streams sometimes – often – feels overwhelming, with up to fifty review submissions a day, when I clock a release I’ve been getting excited about well before time, the buzz still hits.

The way albums are released now isn’t quite the same, either: time was when there would be a single or two ahead of release, there’d be reviews and then the album would arrive and you’d have to buy it to hear it. Now, singles aren’t really singles and half the album’s been released on various streaming platforms along with a bunch of lyric videos and ‘visualisers’ (that’s one for another time). But having only slipped out a couple of tracks in a relatively low-key fashion in April and May, this landing in my inbox to download ahead of release, gave me a genuine buzz.

Gas Lit, released in 2021, was a powerful, album on so many levels. As they put it, the album was their ‘fight for Indigenous Sovereignty, Black and Indigenous Liberation, Water, Earth, and Indigenous land given back.’. The Australian duo make music with meaning, and do so with passion and sonic force.

How often do we hear recently that the failings were systemic? Systemic failings in the NHS led to deaths, and systemic failings in the schooling system resulted in kids committing suicide, systemic failings in vetting and so on has resulted in a culture of racism and misogyny in the MET police… daily, we hear or read news about systemic issues. And we know, we know the system is fucked. Not merely flawed: fucked.

And on fourth album Systemic, Divide and Dissolve examine ‘the systems that intrinsically bind us and calls for a system that facilitates life for everyone. It’s a message that fits with the band’s core intention: to make music that honours their ancestors and Indigenous land, to oppose white supremacy, and to work towards a future of Black and Indigenous liberation.’

“This music is an acknowledgement of the dispossession that occurs due to colonial violence,” says Takiaya Reed, saxophonist and guitarist in Divide and Dissolve. “The goal of the colonial project is to separate Indigenous people from their culture, their life force, their community and their traditions. The album is in direct opposition to this.”

Divide and Dissolve represent a people for whom the system hasn’t failed: it was always pitched against them, and succeeded in stripping Indigenous people of everything. What kind of system is it where this brutal debasement is a success? A capitalist one, of course.

Systemic certainly isn’t a flimsy pop record, then. But it is inherently listenable and does unashamedly incorporate pop elements, and this dynamic only serves to heighten its sonic power.

‘Want’ lulls us into a false sense of tranquillity, a looping motif pulsating over grand drones: it’s quite pleasant, even. And then ‘Blood Quantum’ hits: after a delicate, supple chamber-pop intro, the guitars crash in and it’s like a tidal wave. It’s a slow-stomping riff that grinds hard, and the textures are thick and rich.

The setup is simple, and the guitar and drum combo has become increasingly popular in recent years – but for all of its limitations, it also has considerable versatility, and Divide and Dissolve exploit and push those parameters by exploring the interplay between the two instruments when played slow and heavy and at high volume. And so it is that without words, their songs convey so much.

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Photo by Yatri Niehaus

There’s almost something of a Duane Eddy / Western twang to ‘Simulacra’ before it explodes in a thrashing flurry of distortion and pummelling percussion. But for all the sludge-laden noise of ‘Reproach’, there is a grace and beauty about it, too, and this is what differentiates Divide and Dissolve from their myriad ‘heavy’ contemporaries: they imbue their songs with a palpable emotional depth. ‘Indignation’ begins with trilling woodwind, and possesses a wistful, aching jazz vibe before the thunderous deluge of guitar and drums heaps in. Featuring a spoken word recital from Minori Sanchez-Fung, ‘Kindgom of Fear’ is the only one of the album’s nine tracks to feature vocals: it’s a more minimal musical work which allows the words to stand to the fore, supplementing them with atmosphere and adding further variety and contrast to the album, notably ahead of the ragged riffery of ‘Omnipotent’.

The tranquil strings of ‘Desire’ provide the perfect bookend to stand opposite ‘Want’, and their synonymity is highlighted in this way. To want, to desire, something – something back – seems reasonable, should not need so much fight… but while there is the need to fight, Divide and Dissolve make protest music. It may not be protest music in the way many of us recognise it, but slogans and punk and folk are tired and worn, and on Systemic, Divide and Dissolve speak in their own strong and powerful way.

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14th July 2023

Christopher Nosnibor

I could harp on about how I was introduced to Cinema Cinema way back some time around 2012 when I was writing for fringe magazine Paraphilia, and the fantastic interview I got to do with Ev Gold on the release of their second album. But my recollections for dates are hazy, and no-one really cares.

Cinema Cinema simply don’t do predictable. The only thing you know to expect for sure is that whatever they do, it’ll be different. There are few bands so committed to the pursuit of doing whatever the fuck they please. While many will find a sound a adhere to it, or otherwise make a marked shift in direction having worn a template out, Cinema Cinema push themselves with each record to be different, and to see just how far their can expand. They describe themselves as art-punk, and have been described as ‘experi-metal’, while venturing deep into the terrain of avant-jazz on their two collaborative releases with Matt Darriau of The Klezmatics (CCXMD (2019) and CCXMDII (2021)). There is something uplifting to see a band who refuse to be defined or limit themselves: Cinema Cinema are whatever they want to be.

For this latest outing, their seventh album, the New York cousin duo is again trio, this time featuring the mighty polymath percussionist Thor Harris. Having witnessed Harris performing with Swans, he is an immense presence onstage – and that also translates to her performances in general. The man can turn his hand to practically any instrument that can be used for percussive purposes, and he doesn’t just bring percussion, but an impressive collection of synths to the party, marking another substantial shift in Cinema Cinema’s sound on Mjölnir. It couldn’t be much mor dramatic: they’ve not only ditched the free jazz but gone for short, punchy pieces: with the exceptions of ‘Zero Sum’ and ‘Voiceless Idaho’, the majority of the album’s eight tracks are around five minutes long or shorter. Structurally, then this is different: the last couple of albums featured ten, even eighteen-minute monsters with sub-two-minute interludes. As such, Mjölnir feels more even, more balanced.

It also feels like something of a return to their noise roots, as demonstrated by recent single, the roaringly aggressive ‘War On You’, a driving explosive sonic attack that sounds – quite unexpectedly – quite like The Screaming Blue Messiahs with its thunderous drums and choppy blues-based riff – while at the same time pushing in yet further new directions. And those directions are myriad: Mjölnir is the musical equivalent of an octopus, its tentacles reaching in all directions at once.

But before that, ‘This Dream’ is a warped nightmare of woozy, bending synths, dark drones and twisting discord. There’s a nagging bass groove that sits somewhere between Air’s ‘Sexy Boy’ and Suicide. That probably should not be a statement that even exists, but it’s a measure of Cinema Cinema’s range, and the fact they make it work is a whole other matter. The guys have a rare knack – and that’s an understatement.

‘Zero Sun’’, the first of the album’s sprawlers, — this one clocking in at seven minutes and forty-five – is a beast, with trilling organs and lasers on stun – and couldn’t be much more of a contrast to the chopping, drum and bass0driven blasts that define the album; s sound.

Mjölnir is tense, and Mjölnir is and noisy. There are moments that worder on progressive, but overall, it’s noisy, aggressive droney, and exploratory. It’s not an easy listen: for as much as it’s got name contributors, it’s challenging, antagonistic. No two tracks are alike, and instead the tracks are blurring… ‘Blurring’ is bewildering, and the bleak vocals of ‘Voiceless Idao’ which border on the demented as they scrape across a track that wrestles with itself into crumbling and collapse.

The shrieking cacophony of that last track is particularly hard-hitting, and reminds us of what Cinema Cinema’s recent work have been lacking: riffs. That’s no criticism: they recent works just haven’t been very riffy. But now, the riffs are dank and dense and it’s no hyp to say that Mjölnir finds Cinema Cinema at their absolute peak. This… yeah, this is good alright.

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