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![](/brain/images/somatic_responses-digital_darkness.jpg)
The environs of South Wales were in fact my original stomping ground, and although the mining areas weren’t part of my childhood territory, several members of my family had at one time been miners. The least likely place you would think to find hard, driving industrial electronic music is a small Welsh mining town. However, that’s exactly where the brothers Healey (John S. and Paul A.), the aural engineers behind Somatic Responses, hail from; a place called Ammanford to be precise. It doesn’t take much to imagine the effects on families when the mines were closed a decade or two ago. Listening to this album brings to the surface the memories of the social devastation caused to communities all those years ago. The vituperative venom spat out by newly-redundant miners on television newscasts is here reflected in the machine-gun delivery, the dirty, rasping, and grating slabs of sonic grit, and the almost feral ambience that envelops each of the fifteen tracks.
This is angry music. The only way to express that deep resentment and anger is through pure electronics, wrapped around a hefty drum’n’bass substructure. The sentiment is best encapsulated in track three, “Human Bass,” where a malice-tinged sample declaims, “The human race deserves to be wiped out.” Backing up this misanthropic pronouncement is a pumping bassline, upon which are hung rasps, squeaks, and crunches which aim directly for the pit of the stomach. The bitter acidity veritably drips off this song, collecting into sizzling and steaming pools of biting erosion.
Throughout the album it feels as though the miners were angry, but but not just the miners: the mines and machines themselves were, too. The music is liberally peppered with thunderously violent and mechanised outbursts; it features pounding, seismic rhythmic behemoths invested with a physical presence and weight, metallic clankings, twisted beepings, and scattershot skitterings like hordes of angry insects on the march, as well as self-propelled weaponry carrying the means for destruction on a massive scale. This is a gargantuan steamroller of an album; when cranked up to maximum it is fully intent on inflicting as much collateral damage as possible.
If I may have one minor criticism, it is that I that fifteen tracks are perhaps too much. In all honesty I think the numbers could have been reduced to about ten and it would still have been a strong, sharp album. By the end my focus was waning and everything was becoming blurry. I think that may simply be a result of the fact that this was made for a club environment and not necessarily in a home situation. The sound seems too contained here on a small stereo and cries out for a decent (read large and loud) sound system to best show it off.
Despite my reservation, this is, on the whole, a quality set of songs, displaying both strength and versatility. It features a finely-honed sense of song structure and a keen compositional ability. On Digital Darkness the Healey brothers stoke up the vast engines, set the controls to max, and let the monolithic structure go about its acts of wilful and unbridled destruction without hindrance. You can either get on board for the ride or you can get obliterated by the machine after it rolls over you. It’s as simple as that.
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Brainwashed opened its doors on April 16, 1996, to host the websites for Meat Beat Manifesto and Greater Than One . It was built using discographies of Christopher Miller and wrapped in content and news and images from the artist as well as links to record companies and other resources fans might be interested in. The point of these websites was to provide a true central place for information on the web for a few musical artists, whereas a record label's website disregarded activity outside the record label and fan websites on places like Geocities had little in terms of information about the artists and their history.
Soon, Brainwashed had accumulated websites for bands Cabaret Voltaire , Coil , Current 93 , Death In June , The Legendary Pink Dots , Nurse With Wound , Organum , and Throbbing Gristle , because these websites existed but were hosted at colleges and universities, where the webmasters of these websites were graduating and moving on, either losing their space or simply not updating the websites any longer. The premise remained: provide as much information as possible for these artists including compltete discographies, image archives, and the latest news available.
In 1997, Brainwashed expanded to begin hosting websites for newer artists like Bowery Electric , Labradford , Tortoise , and Trans Am , and record labels including Kranky , Thrill Jockey, and World Serpent.
In 1998 we launched Brainwashed Recordings , basically to make recordings in small numbers as presents for the hardcore fans. All profits were to go back into the operating costs of Brainwashed but, as any industry professional will agree, there's really very little profits (if any) to be made on limited 7" singles and CD compilations!
In 1998, The Brain was begun: it was a weekly electronic magazine to post news about the bands and labels hosted at Brainwashed, along with provide some interesting feedback accumulated over the week, reviews of CDs, movies, books, and videos, a "link of the week," and what we're listening to. Soon, we were including sound samples with all reviews, something that no other noncommercial weekly Internet music publication was doing.
Over the next few years we accumulated more artists and labels and built The Brain into a virtually peerless publication, with contributing writers from all over the world, not just the existing Brainwashed staff and webmasters of the sites hosted.
In 1999, we laucnhed Brainwashed Radio , a 24 hour/7 day per week streaming radio station featuring music from all of the artists and labels hosted at brainwashed.
In 2000, with the increased evils surfacing in the media, we decided we would cease all support of major labels: they engaged in illegal (price-fixing and payola) and greedy (in-house publishing contracts and shifty bookkeeping) activities and we felt that we provided no true alternative if we were to review the same materials that all the major publications did. In the following years, they have further alienated their audiences and waged war against their consumers and artists and employees and promotional outlets and retailers that we continue the ban. It's no surprise their sales numbers have fallen over the years.
Also in 2000, Killer Pimp was launched as a separate identity from Brainwashed Recordings. This is a small label which hopes that with aggressive campaigns we can introduce some new music to the community.
In 2003, we launched The Eye , a weekly video feature with interviews and live footage of some of today's most exciting artists. Some of the features have been collected onto DVDs for fundraising purposes.
In December of 2004, we launched the Podcast Edition of Brainwashed Radio, where every week, Jon Whitney hosts an hour-long show featuring music from the artists and labels hosted at Brainwashed.
In August of 2005, we retired The Brain to reinvent Brainwashed.com, where content is provided daily, as news can't wait for once per week. The new system is searchable with archives of all old reviews and content from the old way of doing things.
In 2006, we celebrated our 10th year of online existence with the first Brainwaves Festival : a three day music fest featuring friends and family of Brainwashed.
In 2008 we are throwing another Brainwaves Festival. Brainwaves 2008 lineup now stands as: Threshold HouseBoys Choir , JG Thirlwell's Manorexia , Meat Beat Manifesto , Matmos , Stars of the Lid , Little Annie , Silver Apples , Windy Weber (of Windy & Carl ) & Thomas Meluch (of Benoit Pioulard ), Major Stars , Reformed Faction ( Mark and Robin of Zoviet France, Rapoon , Dead Voices On Air), Andrew Liles and Jonathan Coleclough , Nmperign feat. Jason Lescalleet , Marissa Nadler , Glenn Jones , His Name Is Alive , Gary Wilson , Rivulets , Strategy , Nudge , Boduf Songs , To Kill A Petty Bourgeoisie , Lichens + DJ Steven Stapleton & a special Greater Than One video presentation.
Sign up for our mailing list here to get the latest updates on Brainwashed Recordings releases before anybody else and the updated news on the Brainwashed 10th festival (tentatively being titled BWX).
Thank you for your interest and support.
Jon Whitney
Prinicipal, Brainwashed
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![cover image](/brain/images/merzbowdolphinsonar.jpg)
Across the three pieces, swirls of bloodied noise are pierced by Merzbowed sonar sounds (especially in "Part 2"). In the bubbling electronic squall, it is almost possible to see the pink foam on the red sea from the slaughter of the dolphins. As there is not really anything more that can be done with extreme noise in terms of aesthetics (no matter who is behind the laptop), the only thing that can be done is pair the noise with a meaning. Akita has never truly managed to link his ideological stance with his music prior to this and this consummation of that marriage between thought and sound is staggering. Considering Akita’s work is usually so abstract, to find such concrete imagery in his composition is as shocking as that first time you heard his work.
[On a nitpicky note, I feel I must correct the “facts” about dolphin brains in the liner notes. Yes indeed dolphin brains are larger than ours (as are many creatures) but the jury is well and truly out as to whether they are more complex than ours. As for the notion that we have three-lobed brains and they have four, that is a complete fallacy. Both dolphins and humans have four lobes in each hemisphere (namely the frontal, parietal, occipital and temporal lobes). Yes the wholesale killing of dolphins is not something humans should be pursuing but please, get your neuroanatomy right!]
This is a fine example of why Merzbow is still relevant and how powerful he can be. It is also a rare instance of sound art being put to good use, I may not agree with him on all points but he has certainly got me on his side here.
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![cover image](/brain/images/5ivehesperus.jpg)
Hesperus is their first proper release for a while (their last EP being a remix CD) and it is a stomper. The music is not the bludgeoning Boris/Pelican/Isis brand of metal that they are usually classified under, in fact it is barely even metal. What this album sounds like is a hypothetical situation where the boys from Dirty Three have found themselves in a recording studio without their equipment but manage to get a loan of Tool’s gear. The jamming is that frenetic, passionate channelling of energy that Dirty Three are known for but the aesthetic is definitely modern heavy rock. I admit this description is strange (and probably a little off-putting) but believe me, it works. What makes it all the more remarkable is that, despite sounding like a four piece, 5ive are a duo (which makes me wonder how they happened upon the name?).
Short pieces like “Kettle Cove” and “Big Sea” combine the crushing weight of largely amplified guitars with a very fluid and loose style of playing; it never feels like the group are trying to introduce elements and time changes to make the music more complicated (as often is the case with instrumental music). The final two tracks, “News I” and “News II,” take up nearly half the album and Hesperus is all the better for it. There are times where the music strays into generic post-rock territory but 5ive always manage to pull it back into more engaging directions.
While there may be no reinvention of the wheel here, there is more than enough enthusiastic playing here to make Hesperus a worthwhile. The fact that there are no gaps that need filling (vocalist? Pfffft!) combined with the breadth of music on offer is striking, all the more considering the fact that it is such a small band making such a huge sound. Those familiar with 5ive will know what they are getting into (and it is even better than normal, trust me) and those who think they are a boyband from the UK, this blows those wusses away.
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"All of my heroes died the same day. All of them fallen away." Thus begins the what could have easily been one of the most depressing records of the year. There is however a sense of power and dare I say hope here that I did not find on Mat Sweet's previous releases. I still worry that once winter arrives, this record might chance putting me into some sort of foul midday slumber. But alas, it is the beginning of fall and for this recording there isn't a better time for it to emerge. The artwork on this release is a bit schizophrenic but will cue in any unassuming listener as to what they are in for. Dark, minimal graphic design work adorns the cover in true Kranky aesthetic. Inside: an F.W. Murnau still and a reversed black and white image of a line drawing titled "The Sleeper" features ghostly figures swirling about a woman asleep in her bed. The back cover contains a classic Beksinski painting of a decrepit and imposing pillar in the midst of a graveyard; doomy.
To the impatient ear, How Shadows Chase the Balance might seem like simply more of the same, but Sweet has given us a record of significant improvement. "Things Not to Be Done on the Sabbath" features the welcome addition of picked and strummed banjo to the mix. The vocals are haunting, yet full of strength and confidence in their harmonies. I have no complaints about the inclusion of more familiar territory like "I Can't See a Thing in Here," executed with slowly plucked guitar and steady vocal mantrams. It is the songs like this where Sweet is allowed to show of his amazing ability to mix a truly delicate sound.
The majority of the following songs each have their own anomaly: "Quite When Group" features a cutting 4/4 snare-heavy beat; "A Spirit Harness" ends with piano accompaniment; "Found on the Bodies of Fallen Whales" begins with plodding electric bass, guitar, and atmospherics that would not sound out of place on a Labradford record; and the records closer, "Last Glimmer on a Hill at Dusk," will not pull anyone further down into the darkness Sweet erects around his albums, with its strummed banjo and relatively upbeat pace. This is a record filled with obscurity, secrecy, and wickedness; but it seems Sweet may have something even more in mind and in store.
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There are times when the word 'ambient,' when applied to music, is woefully insufficient to encompass the kind of music that Zuydervelt creates from nothing more than a guitar and computer. There are times when the guitar parts are separable from the computerised, but at others it is hardly to be recognised as a stringed instrument at all, such are the shimmering and liquid qualities that Zuydervelt coaxes from it. Track one, “Bathyale 1,” grasps like a distant series of memories, whose shapes are only dimly to be discerned and details obscured; just occasionally something sharp stabs through with startling effect. The first minute or so is complete silence, shattered by the astringent explosion of a sharply plucked string. Plangently gentle hums float languidly and lazily wrap themselves around stretches of quiet, plucked guitar and harmonics bursting serenely in small sonic blooms. Drones hover just out of reach, just like those sought for memories that remain resolutely elusive and resist the most determined of searching fingers. Inevitably, images and sounds dissolve in the finale, atomising into mist, compounding frustration and memory.
That elusive character continues with “Bathyale 2,” surging and retreating, with a string figure repeating over and over like a thought that refuses to resolve itself into anything concrete. Against this is set scratching and howling, whispering and emergent droning, small, partially formed hints and images that keep suggesting possibilities that never quite form complete pictures. These snatches appear more fully formed, but the detail is still somewhat fuzzy and dream-like. The images gently fade back into the dreamscape from whence they emerged, indistinct shades once more, as delicate and insubstantial as dew-bedecked spider’s webs on a fall morning, glistening in crisp sunlight. Touch it and it breaks apart.
The third instalment, “Bathyale 3,” resolves into something with mass and solidity as it rumbles into existence from the far distance, coalescing into view in its own slow time. Given the preceding flighty tracks, it may seem slightly misplaced. Slow, weightily symphonic, and sedimentary movements swirl and accrete, the drone layers building over long cycles, piling on each other, constructing gargantuan edifices that defy gravity. I once remember seeing a painting, by the surrealist René Magritte, of a castle sitting atop a colossal chunk of rock floating in a cloudy blue sky, hovering insensibly above the sea. In the same way that the Belgian artist’s painting depicts the juxtaposition of two polar opposites, setting the world at odds with itself, so does this third track. “Bathyale 3” simultaneously possesses a cyclopean weightiness and a feathery lightness, the friction between the two qualities creating a sound-painting of hypnogogic power. It is this power which gives it its place here, this weighty insubstantiality. More to the point, Zuydervelt has an assured touch with the material, so that both qualities are present, each in their own measure, to create that marvellous effect.
Machinefabriek’s world is dream-like: a place where colors run and bleed and outlines are fuzzy and blurred. The music is fluid and sometimes lacks a definite shape, and has something of the alien about it. Yet, having said that, there is still something vaguely comforting and familiar to me about it after all, like those elusive memories alluded to earlier. The images evoked tumble in and out of focus, appearing briefly and flowing swiftly, just long enough for them to remind me of something but too fleeting for me to register completely. The music possesses a willow o’ the wisp evasiveness, enticing one to chase after it but never allowing one to come near it. In that sense, it’s alluringly beautiful music, beckoning saucily but at the last moment running away. If I listen carefully, I might just be able to make out faint rills of laughter.
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Fledg'ling Records
It might be heretical and fogeyish but sometimes I wish that anyone coming out with supposedly new or alt-folk could do a few standards first. Just to prove they can do it. Come on, even Picasso did some fantastic conventional portraits before embarking on the radically different path down which his imagination led.
But I digress and rant. Fotheringay were the first of Sandy Denny's post-Fairport Convention projects. After one album, produced by Joe Boyd, the group dissolved and Denny embarked on recording under her own name. For the uninitiated, Fairport Convention has been compared to a British version of The Band in that they respected and amplified folkroots to create an exciting new sound which illuminated the past. They included Richard Thompson, who, if music were gauged in sporting terms, is arguably Britain's best ever guitar player. Fotheringay lacked Thompson but they created their own intriguing balance between UK folk-rock and US country-rock that could play as well at the Queens Head, Belper, as at the Kerrville Folk Festival.
The opening song, an anti war epistle called "John The Gun" comes with the unwanted surprise of Sam Donahue's saxophone solo.It is said that he was in from Nevada, visiting his son Jerry, and Denny insisted he contribute. Fotheringay 2 has solid and subtle playing throughout but the highlight is Denny and her ability to create a majestic sound that lifts the mood far above the everyday. Trivia buffs might note that she remains the only singer to guest on a Led Zeppelin recording. On what may be her best version of "Wild Mountain Thyme" her voice sounds like a series of inspired sighs. Equally, with "Silver Threads and Golden Needles" she casts an intoxicating spell in the role of a kept, yet betrayed, woman. Her ballad singing can induce shivers on a humid 90 degree afternoon. A phrase sung by her hangs in the air like a sunlit spider's web covered in frost.
Denny also sang with The Strawbs (who first recorded her signature piece "Who Knows Where The Time Goes"). It is appropriate, then, that the last track here is a piece written by the Strawbs bandleader, Dave Cousins. Ironically, his composition "Two Weeks Last Summer" was one of the first songs he ever recorded, and yet Fotheringay's version is perhaps the most modern sounding of all the music on 2. Don't be fooled by the term ‘modern', though, as there is no concession to the 21st Century here - mainly because Jerry Donahue has completed this project in a seamless manner respectful of the roots and vision of his fellow original group members. His task was complicated since all lead vocals were originally recorded with the intention of being overdone and the master tapes were scattered across the archives of various record companies. I don't know if Donahue had final say in the cover art but the depiction of an embroidered number 2 that is not quite finished is modest and apt: for this record will never truly be finished.
Fledg'lng also carries the work of Shirley & Dolly Collins, Chris McGregor, Leon Rosselson, Davy Graham and many others. This tiny label has a catalog of music and information full of varied delights. The site links several discographies, such as those of Thompson and Robert Wyatt, as well as Martin Carthy's which is truly spectacular. We still don't know where the time goes, but this record sounds fresh and vital even though Trevor Lucas has been dead for almost 20 years and his lover Sandy Denny has been gone for three decades. Fotheringay 2 is a throwback, for sure, but to a time and place worth revisiting.
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![cover image](/brain/images/burke_dimuzio-upcoming_events.jpg)
Perhaps most interesting is the fact that the 15 tracks that compile this album are based upon live collaborations over a period of only three days. The pieces were not overdubbed or otherwise processed, but only mixed after the performances to give a more cohesive flow. As in any good recording of this nature, the specific instrumentation and tools of performance remain a mystery (the liner notes credit laptops, sampling, and “sound sources”), but their output is captivating. The lengthy opener “Deregulation” begins quietly: electronic loops deep in the mix as fragments of voice and computer data tones swell up, later matched by lush, almost classically dark ambient synths and eventual digital data sputtering, like a hard drive in its death throes.
Some of the tracks also have some obvious intended contrasts: the thick, organ like tones that comprise “In God We Trust” have a distinct holy quality, especially next to the machinery hum and hellish detuned orchestra of “Devil’s Torrent,” which immediately follows. Similarly, the quiet, pitch bent sound of “Operative” is followed up by the heavier “Aggregate,” with a thick distorted synth element that places it somewhere near the realms of current power electronics/death industrial.
Other pieces exist solely on their own, without any easy point of reference to draw: “Infecticidal” is based upon a loop of what sounds like creaking springs, but is matched with what resembles ethnic percussion, thick stabs of noise, and what sounds like birds chirping. It's an odd and somewhat disorienting combination of sounds that these two artists manage to sculpt into a fascinating track that sounds like very little else.
The album closes on an especially odd note with the penultimate “Mediastorm,” consisting of odd chattering noises and dense reverb blasts which resemble the recordings of hurricane forced winds more than anything else. The actual last bit is almost pure silence mixed with the occasional odd sound (it may be the artists dismantling their gear after the show).
Although from live recordings, this collaboration has a distinct cohesive feel that, even with all its abstraction, feels like a fully realized album. While there are the occasional traces of other genres that show up, as a whole it stands on its own as a collection of sonic textures that further listening only expand upon.
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![cover image](/brain/images/stargazers_asst-shivers_and_voids.jpg)
The disc opens and closes with two longer pieces and a shorter, more conventional track sandwiched in the middle. The opening of “Night Soil” begins with all metallic swelling reverbs and pronounced field recordings including birds loudly chirping. Eventually the abnormal nature sounds are supplanted with improvised percussion and subtle, restrained strings that eventually builds to a level of pure explosive noise before retreating back into a quiet realm of harmonium and organ before again growing dark with bass heavy loops to end the track.
The short title track is the most musically conventional on here: a rhythm section made up of heavily reverberated clattering, plaintive acoustic guitar, and gentle vocals that, while heavily multitracked and echoed, never lose their human quality. Layers of effects and production serve to add complexity, but never obscures the core musicality of the song.
Finally, the closing “The Dream Kingdom” is especially cinematic, opening with a subwoofer rattling low end and gong before segueing into tense, rumbling strings and bits of metallic percussion. The more conventional movie soundtrack sound is later mixed with noisy electronic textures and eventually martial snare drumming that builds in darkness and intensity until pulling away, leaving only harmonium and the final reverberations of strings to close the album.
Although an all too brief release, Shivers and Voids is a remarkable piece of cinema for the ears that, though atmospherically it makes sense, probably would not make for a good soundtrack because there is simply too much going on. Instead, it is probably best relegated to the auditory realm so it can be the focus of attention. It would have been nice for there to have been a bit more material on here, however, as it clocks in as more of an EP than a full album, but the good far outweighs this shortcoming.
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![cover image](/brain/images/group_inerane-guitars_from_agadez.jpg)
Even without the background of political and social unrest that informs Tuareg guitar rock, the music here would be fascinating and well worth anyone's time. The sound is both tense and celebratory, a fertile combination of Arabic music, Afrobeat and Western rock tropes, with elements familiar from the Ethiopiques group of artists, but with a distinct rhythmic chug all its own. The lyrics are sung in the language of Tamacheq, spoken by the nomadic desert people known as the Tuareg, a distinct ethnic minority that have traditionally gotten short shrift in colonial disputes, and were forced into refugee camps in Niger and Mali. The unique elements of Tuareg culture could fill a small volume, but suffice to say that their distinct cultural heritage informs their unique blend of influences, creating an ethnic music quite unlike anything I've ever heard before. Urgent, shuffling dance rhythms form a backdrop for funky, rootsy electric guitar runs, with male group vocals occasionally punctuated by the shrill ululations of female singers.
The sound is social, and the recordings here are refreshingly human, capturing the sound of the room in which they were recorded, full of people engaged in musical celebration and communication. Hisham Mayet, a name that is frequently seen on Sublime Frequencies releases, handles the recording here. Mayet acts more as a field recorder than a music engineer, simply hitting record and staying out of the way. Though all of the tracks (except for the first, which is from the Group Inerane archives) are recorded in crisp stereo, there is still a warmth to the proceedings, mostly because the group themselves are loosely mic'd, and the sounds of amplifier distortion are allowed to remain.
Although the liner notes offer nothing in the way of translations of the Tamacheq lyrics, they do offer compelling background information on the Tuareg and the rebellions and political disputes that caused their marginalization. The guitar rock made by Group Inerane has its origins in North Saharan rebel music, with incendiary political lyrics railing against the governments of Niger and Mali. During the 1980s and '90s, this music was recorded onto cassettes and distributed throughout refugee camps as a way of disseminating the message of the Tuareg resistance. Now that a peace accord has been reached between the Tuareg rebels and the governments of Niger and Mali, music that was once banned is now quite popular. After hearing this story, I couldn't help but wish that instead of a recording of a modern group, Sublime Frequencies had instead attempted to reissue some of the old underground rebel cassettes. Whatever fidelity might have been lost would surely have been made up for with authenticity.
But it's best to focus on what is on the album, rather than what isn't. What Group Inerane present is a collection of ten great songs, many of them based on originals by Abdallah Oumbadougou, Bibi Ahmed's mentor. If I had not been told that many of these songs reflect the tragic destiny of a whole generation of Tuareg, I might never have guessed, as most of these tracks are upbeat, energetic and jubilant. The rhythms are similar to what one might expect from Afrobeat, but quite a bit simpler, lacking complex polyrhythms, no doubt because of the presence of only one drummer, rather than a group. The dual fuzz guitar attacks are unique, a kind of extra-geographical style that takes in Western rock n' roll, jazz, funk and Arabic modes and spits out something utterly singular. The quartet of female singers frequently reach a hair-raising chorus of glossolalic ululations that could be taken either as a funereal shriek or an ecstatic outpouring of positivity.
This is another classy release for Sublime Frequencies, highlighting a genre of music that is very likely unfamiliar to all but the most adventurous of world music listeners. The liner notes and press material persist in calling the music here "psychedelic," a term which I object to because I'm sure whatever mind-expanding qualities the music may possess are mostly the result of its exociticism. Were we familiar with the Tuareg cultural heritage, the music might not sound strange or unorthodox at all. For all we know, Group Inerane is the Aerosmith of Tuareg guitar music.
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Last time we heard Martin Rev on record was his last File-13 release, 2003’s lo-fi rocknroller To Live, which superficially appeared to be comprised of hooky tracks that Suicide vocalist Alan Vega rejected for 2002’s American Supreme, rightfully reclaimed by their creator. Far heavier than his prior output and even a tad conventional for the aging auteur, it violently contrasted with the sincere bubblegum pop found on See Me Ridin’ and Strangeworld. Evidently, Rev had no intention of being boxed in by expectations, his youthful zeal and fuck-you attitude stubbornly refusing to wane over time. I admire this, and at the handful of Suicide gigs I’ve managed to attend this century I’ve been all too willing to express this sentiment, perhaps to the dismay of less passionate concertgoers. Let them be perturbed by my unrestrained enthusiasm and uncouth willingness to throw elbows, I say. I have a right to force my way to the front of the stage, hooting and hollering all the while at living legends, at royalty.
That passion—tinged with an otherworldly optimism otherwise lacking from the rest of my daily life—surged upon receipt of Les Nymphes. Opener “Sophie Eagle” excites instantly with springy electronics speckled with the serene plink-plonk of a piano and some breathy vocal echoes. With just a little guidance from someone more familiar with today’s dance music scene, the groovy “Cupid” could do more than affectionately nod backwards towards stabby 90s house classics. Dripping with dubby and near tropical vibes, “Venise” brilliantly resurrects and remixes the dreamy melody from “Misery Train,” a highlight from American Supreme.
However, not everything here is quite as appealing or effective. The puzzling “Triton” palms a dated KMFDM-style guitar riff straight out of Gunter Schulz’s classic playbook, saturates it in murky effects, and slides under this gelatinous gloop a limp-wristed loop unfit for The Crystal Method to wipe their filthy trainers on. “Les Nymphes Et La Mer” nearly recycles that formula, though fortuitously sidesteps the non-blockrocking beats. While sonically adequate, “Valley Of The Butterfly” comes across as almost comical with such wanton oddness, though I suspect that I’m not meant to snicker at the spoken word bellows of Rev’s longtime partner Mari. I wont even go into the awful elevator funk of “Nyx,” which seems hardly fit to grace the stereo at my dentist’s office.
Having had the time to experience these 11 tracks, I find myself marginally satisfied as a fanatic. As a music journalist of the lowest order, however, I’m decidedly not on the fence about Les Nymphes, an unbalanced basket of tasty tangerine dreams and a disproportionate number of discarded orange peels. I’m meant to believe that some Greek mythological theme carries the album, yet the only musical constant I perceive here is Rev’s craven lust for the wet reverbs and delay effects he deliberately drenches these tunes in, no doubt to ferment them into ambrosia. No such luck.
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