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Reynols, "Whistling Kettle Quartet"
This release should arrive with a grain of sadness for, in January, Reynols disbanded after ten years of tireless activity. The prolific Argentine group spent the majority of this time in relative obscurity, forging ahead with large ambitions and an unflinching devotion to idiosyncratic craft that inevitably left them well-situated within the pantheon of frayed roots-rockers, brash experimenters, and psychedelic casualties. Their willingness to experiment with the most eccentric of concepts always made Reynols seem extra special, even among the small crop of similarly broad-minded collectives.Sedimental
The group's catalog forms a sidewinding trip through torrid homemade noise rock, vintage free-form freaking, drone opuses, and a number of fantastical pieces composed for increasingly wayward instrumentation, of which Whistling Kettle is certainly one. Without the visceral edge of Blank Tapes, their surprisingly abrasive work of processed and layered tape hiss, or the baffling atmospherics of the 10,000 Chickens Symphony, sourced in what must be a gigantic, cavernous coop, Whistling Kettle brings more of a lyrical approach to Reynols' consistently adventurous arrangements. Performed on "baritone, tenor, contralto, and soprano whistling kettles," the quartet moves with a reserved, almost classical rigor that may come as a surprise to those indoctrinated by the coarse psych jams of earlier releases. Kettles drift closer to wails and howls rather than whistles, but the music supplies enough controlled tension to prevent the slip into gratuitous or brainless display. In fact, the four chrome mouthpieces do little to reveal their simple construction, each part contributing to a quivering, animate strand of sound that can only be described as otherworldly. The opener, "Andante Mogal," with its strained insistence, immediately reminded me of Jack Nance in Eraserhead, sitting patiently before the steaming vaporizer that attends his sick, inhuman child. There, like here, the kettle's whistle is something recognizable, though uncomfortable and veiled in mystery and expectation. Comparisons to Ligeti's obelisk-speak score for 2001 come easily during "Moderato uno Surido Fermo" where pitches maintain a frightening vocal range, undulating with reverent moans. The quartet escalates into its final and most impressive section, "Allegro Repuliom Lanidelo," as kettles produce grating screams and calls, sounding like the ambience from some dark, interstellar rainforest. Even at this noisy plateau, however, Whistling Kettle maintains a fragile, hushed quality which must be due to the unique timbre of the kettle. This "thinness" becomes both a callback to the medium and production of the piece, as well as one of the more interesting aspects of the music taken alone. It adds a beautiful layer of melancholy to the piece, while making the whole seem just as likely to dissolve, inconsequentially, like steam into the room. 
