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Silk Saw, "8 Reports"
An aberration among their label mates, Silk Saw has consistently managed to operate on the fringe of the so-called rhythmic noise scene, with compelling sonic consequences. Thankfully, Ant Zen founder Stefan Alt continues to stand by the often difficult listening crafted at Laboratoire Central, collaborators Marc Medea and Gabriel Severin's enduring Brussels studio.
The duo's clever moniker, the soft fetishworthy fabric genetically spliced with a cold dangerous tool, could never be lost on the astute listener. Its music, while never particularly pretty, always allows for an uneasy, narcotic calm to share space with the unrelenting rhythms. Industrial in the purest sense of the word, 8 Reports doesn't diverge too much from that loose formula over the course of its eight tracks, fitting in well with such provocative Silk Saw albums as Preparing Wars and 4th Dividers, two of the finest Ant-Zen records to date.
Alt's typically brilliant artwork this time around depicts a crude, sub-Kraftwerkian mechanical man, an automaton bearing the dust and wounds of years of neglect. Such imagery immediately evinces an excellent mindset for appreciating these recordings. "Conductor" builds slowly through percussive clicks, as if mimicking how the abandoned robot might sound when finally turned on, culminating in a repeating lo-fi surge that implies a readiness to serve. Beginning with a dark ambient passage of almost clichéd sounds, "Faggoted" drops a frenetic beat, looped at an assembly line pace, surrounded by a restrained cacophony of shifting tones, bleeps, and drones. Sparks fly like white hot snares ever so suddenly around the five minute mark, teetering towards territory already covered extensively by Pan Sonic, a forgivable lapse considering the two acts are essentially contemporaries.
"Sleep Will Come" plays out like a machinist's lullaby of hypnotic hum and high-pitched ringing electronics, the sounds one might encounter trying to catch a nap in the factory's empty break room. Closer "Defeated" conjures the spectre of 2-step garage before growing in rhythmic complexity and disquieting intensity, climactically sputtering out in a series of hiss strewn delays and filters, powering down the sad contraption perhaps indefinately.
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