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The third album from Michael Begg and Deryk Thomas explores the moods and sounds of the witching hour: deep, dark chasms of sound littered with shimmering tones that dot the music like stars on a night sky. This album is good by day but playing it during the still, cold hours of early morning reveal a different hallucinatory creature. Instruments morph out of recognizable shapes into extended timbres and tones, voices call from somewhere beyond and an uneasy sorrow permeates the music.
Black Hill occupies a realm that is somewhere between the gorgeous drones of Stars of the Lid and the haunting and solemn “Symphony No. 3” by Henryk Górecki. However, unlike the aforementioned artists, listening to Black Hill is like listening to a radio that cannot stay on one frequency for more than a few minutes before drifting into some other equally compelling broadcast from who knows where. No piece ends distinctly, the various tracks all fade into each other but change enough for it to be obvious when a new piece has begun. This bleeding of music into itself forces the listener to commit the album as a whole. This is something that has been lacking in this “I’ll just grab a couple of tracks from the net and see what I think” age.
That being said, there are segments of Black Hill that stick out above the rest as being especially moving. The organ-like dirge of “Portrait of God with Broken Toys” seems to erupt from the speakers with a huge amount of force. It is an overpowering feeling like being stuck in a massive cathedral that is shaking itself apart during a performance of a particularly moving requiem. Elsewhere, the music has a gentler quality; “Dalkeith Night” has a light, airy feel to the piano while David Tibet recites a few words. He is one of a few special guests on the album: Julia Kent plays cello, Fabrizio Palumbo from Larsen is credited with treatments and vocals and Begg’s compatriot in Fovea Hex, Clodagh Simonds, lends her voice and piano playing to the album.
Thomas’ paintings must be mentioned. As well as being half of Human Greed, Thomas has also painted the iconic bunnies on Swans’ White Light from the Mouth of Infinity album and more recently the cover of The Angels of Light’s We Are Him. His apocalyptic nursery rhyme style painting that graces the cover of Black Hill continues the theme of those previous great album sleeves. Kittens, skeletons and catastrophic ruin provide a warning to all who listen to the album; this is not music to chill out to after a night on the tiles.
This is powerful stuff and takes a while to fully digest it. The oily darkness that the music conjures up gets deeper and deeper with every listen, a resonant and otherworldly tremor that is at once human and sublime.
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After the critical success of last year's multi-disc fetish item recognizing Wolfgang Voigt's pioneering Gas project, Kompakt wastes little time in reissuing this less expansive, previously out-of-print collection of the producer's concurrent minimal techno works.
Compared to the pomp, fanfare, and inflated buzz surrounding the repackaged commemorative Nah Und Fern boxes, Studio 1 comes practically under the radar in its unpretentious jewelcase with packaging that all but buries the origins of the material itself. (Notably, track names are not spelled out in the packaging, but Internet searches or visual cues reveal options. I've opted for the former in this case.) It is a simple, straightforward reissue looking to capitalize at least somewhat on Voigt's higher profile in the wake of both the aforementioned set and the perhaps more coveted Gas book+CD on Raster-Noton.
In these tough economic times, many of Voigt's older fans already familiar with his work under the Studio 1 (Studio Eins) moniker have little reason to spend their money on this, given the notable lack of bonus tracks. Still, such collector's sentiments become irrelevant once the music starts to play. Tracks like "Rosa 1" and the peppy "Lila 3" tinker with dub in a manner unlike the Chain Reaction crew, obdurately resistant to the temptations of long lush echoes that define the "pop ambient" Gas. Instead, Voigt plays ascetic under the guise of Studio 1, designing for austerity with delicate, precise rhythmic foundations. He makes it easy to share his appreciation for the delightful contrast of abrupt, punchy kicks against delicate synthesized hi-hats and snares. On "Neu 3," the bass subtly gurgles underneath that crisp mix while two tinny stabs play every four beats. This is precisely what drew me to the clicks-and-cuts scene in the mid-to-late '90s; moreso than the glitch, I was enamored with the trance-inducing hypnotic combination of minimalism and repetition in a dance music context.
Just about all of Studio 1 could easily pass as new material, which says more about the subgenre's arrested development than any visionary futurism on Voigt's part. Sure, Richie Hawtin and his M_nus crew have done a fine job of mining the darker forbidding corners, but—with few exceptions—producers since Voigt haven't done much to advance beyond the sound he undeniably helped establish in his more productive heyday.
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The promise of Fire on Fire's debut EP on Young God is easily met by their dream-like, somnambulistic follow-up. Less extravagant and aggressive than their previous effort, this Portland Maine-based quintet showcases their softer side with rich and mellow songwriting cut through by pining voices and twang-scored harmonies.
When I heard Fire on Fire's "Amnesia" (from their EP), I was won over by the psychedelic madness that boiled beneath the song's tuneful hook and bizarre lyrics. The band manifested a crazed energy within the confines of their nuanced songwriting and constantly teetered on the brink of chaos. The Orchard sees the band relaxing and focusing their energy on softer tunes and strengthening their songwriting core. With nothing but acoustic instruments at their disposal, the group recalls the spirit of America's early musical tradition by emphasizing strong lyrical topics and melody-heavy songs. Drunken and haphazard frills decorate the record and keep many of the songs from sinking into pure genre worship. This is not slick, romantic Appalachia; Fire on Fire are rugged and lively musicians who emphasize lurching movements and uneven steps.
The album begins with "Sirocco," perhaps the most rock-like song of the 12 featured on the album. The name comes from the high velocity winds that blow out of the Sahara and pelt France, Italy, and Greece across the Mediterranean. This hurricane-strength wind can disable machinery and invade homes as it blows north and dissipates. "Sirocco" takes its namesake seriously and functions as the album's vital genesis; it is far and away the most energetic song on the album and it propels the record forward with a haphazard bang. Reveling in fragility and decay, the band boldly announce their purpose: "If we tear this kingdom down / Tear it down / Let it be with a deserving and joyous sound." To this end, Fire on Fire employ rambling banjos, scruffy yelps, soothing harmonies, and the familiar sounds of the strummed guitar. They add quirky lyrics, unexpected twists, and exotic nuances to facilitate a hallucinatory sound. Some songs play out in prismatic shifts with uneasy contrasts and others resemble traditional American folk songs as imagined by The Byrds, but at no point does the group allow their songs to fall into an easily definable space. One of the album's highlights, "Toknight," is an almost-believable country/pop hybrid from the late '60s or early '70s. The song's heavy down-beat, plodding rhythm, huge chorus, and subject matter are all drawn from country and rock roots, but I doubt anyone would confuse Fire on Fire with Gram Parsons. Gypsy music seems an equal part of the band's formula, though that may only be an effect of the accordion's prominent position in many of the songs. The band's approach to performance is grounded in a familiar and well-established tradition, but their vision of American music isn't purely historical nor is it purely American.
In fact, an other-worldly quality permeates The Orchard from top to bottom. Collenen Kinsella's voice is a particularly sharp and effective part of the band's sound; her unusual abilities add an absolutely invaluable dimension to the band's timbre and provides some of the stranger songs their strangest edges. It is the use of unusual vocal harmonies and textures that gives many of these songs their unusual character. The vocal performances bare a tribal and spontaneous quality that alters the nature of the music being played and ultimately forms the heart of the record. In any case, Fire on Fire's music is an inventive take on old music; they've adhered to a simple premise and thankfully managed to strike new ground without venturing too far into "freak folk" territory. This is undeniably American music, but with Fire on Fire's distinct and eccentric signature.
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Montreal's Menace Ruine stormed onto the extreme music scene in early 2008 with their blistering debut Cult of Ruins. The enigmatic male/female duo's unusual mixture of black metal, noise, and dark ambient quickly won them a lot of fans (the world clearly needs an evil antipole to Mates of State), as they succeeded in sounding like absolutely no one else. A mere eight months later, they have made the dubious career move of temporarily abandoning much of that sound to release a medieval music-based concept album.
Superficially, The Die Is Cast sounds like the work of a completely different band: Genevieve has completely taken over vocal duties; the pace has slowed from blast-beat intensity to a martial crawl; and all of the shrillness and shrieking have been replaced with somber melodicism. Fundamentally, however, the sound remains quite dark and Menace Ruine’s talent for compelling dark ambient has been amplified. While this album is much more accessible than its predecessor, it doesn’t seem like the band has deliberately softened their sound (the title track ends with some extreme, otherworldly dissonance). More likely, they just wondered what it would be like to be "crushing" rather than "frenzied".
I had read that the intention of this album was to pay tribute to the neo-folk of bands like Death In June, which filled me with apprehension, as I expected an album of dour acoustic dirges. Thankfully, while the foundation of the album is somewhat in that vein, it is often buried beneath layers and layers of buzzing, shimmering feedback that would not be out of place on a Fennesz or Tim Hecker album. As a whole, The Die Is Cast sounds far more like Lisa Gerrard fronting Sunn o))) than anything else. Which is no small achievement, as dabbling in medieval music can easily make a band sound like a bunch of hobbit-obsessed Renaissance Faire creeps.
The opening track ("One Too Many") is an absolute monster. Waves of dark feedback drone and glisten under Genevieve’s coldly beautiful vocals, while distant horns (that are not lame) and an insistent slow-motion thump give the track a very majestic feel. The lengthy drone piece that closes the album ("The Bosom of the Earth") is also a stunner: a haunting wall of feedback and overdriven, sustained guitars builds epicly amidst flourishes of cymbals and distant thundering toms for sixteen amazing minutes. However, the tracks in between (while quite good) mine very similar territory to one another. Once in a while, a welcome departure occurs (such as the eerie bagpipe interlude in the title track), but I am left wondering how staggering this album could have been with a little more work. As it stands, The Die Is Cast frustratingly avoids being a masterpiece.
Sadly, I will probably never get my wish to hear more work like this, as Menace Ruine have vowed to return to their signature scorching mechanized black metal for the next album. They also have an upcoming collaboration in the works with Merzbow, so I expect they will get some deserved wide-spread recognition in 2009. I will certainly be following them closely- if they continue to evolve at this rate, a uniformly brilliant album can’t be far off.
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Guitarists Loren Connors and Jim O'Rourke have individually been fixtures on the experimental music scene for years. Yet their frequent collaborations throughout the past decade have resulted in only one release preceding this, a collection of three pieces hand-picked by O'Rourke from performances the duo made on tour in Europe in 1997.
This disc opens with a thick strum on "Maybe Paris," a track title which alludes to the ambiguity about exactly where each of these sets occurred. Wherever it did, the 22 minute piece is an impressive improvisatory feat as it opens with a soupy psychedelic wailing whose metallic energy is distinctly opposed to Connors' usual approach. Soon the piece slips into Connors' realm though, with languid folk meanderings gently swaying about. O'Rourke slips right into the piece as each note is carefully considered, displaying whole worlds of mood in its near silent excursion.
"Or Possibly Köln" displays a less peaceful side of the duo's sound, with tense feedback control and a slowly chugging background. As it builds steam, the piece moves into near drone territory, one axe-man providing the thick background blanket while the other sets up a choppy groove on top. This eventually steamrolls into a frenzy of guitar tone more in line with Fushitsusha than John Fahey. Thunderous as it is the work retains all of the detail and richness of sound that the quieter moments of the disc have as well. When the clamour all but stops in its tracks, the work slinks into equally bleak but softer realms as the two make clear their intimate musical relationship.
"Most Definitely Not Köln" is a near split between eerie sonic buildup and gentle comedown. The dichotomy and ease with which the piece shifts between these two modes is astounding. Slowly evolving across barren terrain, the two guitars scrape and bend their way into a sheet of near static before opening up into a wash of tones. Not unlike some of the material off of Neil Young's "Dead Man" soundtrack, the set soon dissolves, drifting into a near silent melody that is rendered all the more fragile and eloquent by the onslaught preceding it.
The disc represents a beautiful collaborative effort between two closely tied musical experimentalists. Somehow these two, whose typical musical pursuits often differ widely in nature, have managed to form a musical relationship that allows each to expand their standard repertoire in a creative and enriching way. The results make for great listening.
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Given Neil Campbell's musical track record, it may be surprising to hear him state that, "I don't take psychedelic drugs." With a penchant for experimentation, Campbell's hallucinogenically inclined pallet has been an important presence on the British side of the experimental pond for years now. Having left the rock-drone pursuits of Vibracathedral Orchestra in favor of his own unit, Campbell continues to explore levels of electronic catharsis on this album, which moves from techno-inspired ravers to drifting expanses of electrified psychedelia.
Fittingly comprised of eight tracks, Octuplex represents yet another example of Campbell's resilient musical talents. The album opens with the techno beat of "Caustic Roe," whose laser synth sounds open the disc to a club-like environment before turning the track toward a dizzying array of psyched out squelches and synthesized mayhem. "Mugik Churn" features John Clyde-Evans contributing beats as Campbell continues his restless smattering of sounds atop. Immense waves coalesce under skittering rhythms that bounce so thoroughly through the sonic space that they create a dense and insular environment of crazed kinetics. The result is a kind of maniacal pop music that combines sugar-coated glamour from throughout the globe until no individual style is decipherable.
The clicking rhythms of "Aggro Vault," also supplied by Evans, are all that Campbell requires in throwing off the song's near video game-worthy backing melody. Not unlike Muslimgauze, Campbell has a knack for finding a groove and sticking with it, changing what is essentially looped material just enough so as to maintain momentum. It is this tension between minimal tactical change and maximal sonic detail that keep these tracks afloat. As beams of sound slide their way over near breakbeat structures, the sheer overabundance of rhythmic and tonal resources calls for a patience on the part of the performer in order to maintain a sense of continuity. With little melodic material present, Campbell is moves the piece in more subtle (and thus less motivically significant) ways. Rather than slipping into all too conventional tactics of dance music, Campbell utilizes those same techniques with a different goal in mind. On "Pilgrim Sunburst" gentle new age melodies slide atop rising washes of warm drones and jet-fueled crescendos while Campbell's son Magnus speaks in the background. The result is a zoned out space that has little to do with "getting down;" and much to do with getting there, wherever that may be.
"Sweet Spraint," featuring both Richard Youngs and, if you can believe it, Pogues member Spider Stacy on reeds, murmurs about beneath a thick two-chord progression that grows in momentum until it has expanded itself into washes of warm white light. "Radial Hermaphordite", also featuring Stacy, mellows the epic conclusion of the previous track with a near raga-style workout, complete with drifting folk guitar behind meandering pipe moves. Its thick spectral backing gives it a feel unlike most pursuits of the aesthetic as it maintains an electronically overloaded sound that avoids the pitfalls of less fearless delvings into that arena.
The loose "Muscle Abductor" slips apart as it splays its buried melodies about before the closing "Hot Toxer" brings the beats back to the fore as it moves toward stadium scale euphoria. It is a fitting close to an album whose perfect pacing and distinctive style go far beyond the standard "experimental" expectations. Campbell's reconfiguration of the medium is refreshing in a time when the term "psychedelic" often references the same prescription again and again.
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Masami Akita is deeply troubled by the rampant, unchecked growth of the Tasmanian Blue Gum tree in India. It seems there is a eucalyptus apocalypse brewing. Nay, a Eucalypse, and he has written an album about it, insomuch as a Merzbow album can plausibly be topical, anyway.
Aside from the drolly-amusing portmanteau title, this release is noteworthy mainly for its elaborate and unusual packaging- a handcrafted wooden box. Admittedly, the box is pretty cool, although I had an embarrassingly tough time removing the CD and the liner notes from its clutches. However, I find it somewhat unnerving that the box conspicuously states that it was made in India, yet there is no mention of the type of wood used. It would be thematically appropriate to be made from the accursed Blue Gum tree, but it seems like it would have been mentioned somewhere if it had. Was some hapless, benign tree used for the packaging instead? This uncertainty fills me with low-level anxiety.
Much like an exotic plant that is introduced to a place where it has no natural enemies, Merzbow releases have proliferated out of control. While I greatly admire Akita's near-total abandonment of melody, conventional rhythm, and recognizable instrumentation, I only genuinely get excited about albums where he departs somewhat from "the Merzbow sound", such as Music For a Bondage Performance, Doors Open At 8 AM, or his collaborative projects. Eucalypse is not one of those albums yet it is a worthy and representative example of what Akita does.
Naturally, every track on the album is a roaring squall of white noise, feedback, cavernous clangings, and chirps. Occasionally, a murky guitar or organ sound will burble into the mix, then abruptly vanish or get buried beneath relentless static. None of the tracks really have any sort of cohesive development, but there is often a hypnotic ebb and flow and the texture is always shifting and incorporating or discarding components.
There is nothing mindblowing here for those already familiar with Merzbow's work, but the opening track stands apart from the others: the rhythmic foundation sounds like a giant subterranean piston and its insistent throbbing anchors the escalating storm of dissonance and laser noises quite nicely. Also, the fifth track has an exceptionally sinister sounding opening in which feedback coheres into actual identifiable notes before being enveloped in a slow-building roar. That said, Eucalypse may still only appeal to packaging fetishists and Merzbow completists.
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This EP is the third collaboration between British artist/filmmaker Sam Taylor-Wood and the Pet Shop Boys. The trio seems to convene every five years or so to cover odd, semi-forgotten pop songs (they’ve previously tackled Serge Gainsbourg’s "Je T’aime…Moi Non Plus" and the uncomfortably sexual Donna Summer/Georgio Moroder disco smash "Love to Love You Baby"). This time around, they unearth a minor 1981 hit by obscure postpunk band The Passions. I am mystified as to how this wound up being released on Kompakt.
For those unfamiliar, Sam Taylor-Wood has collaborated with Elton John, made the world’s largest photographic installation, and is probably best known for being commissioned by the National Portrait Gallery to make a film of David Beckham sleeping. However, she has also done some fairly intriguing work, such as a time-lapse video of an "impossibly beautiful" bowl of fruit rotting (called "Still Life"). Taylor-Wood is also directing a short film that prominently features the music of the Buzzcocks. Consequently, I assumed that her motivation for releasing this song tied into an accompanying video and I was (as usual) right, but it is only a mildly diverting one (an actress dressed like Marlene Dietrich remains (relatively) motionless, while a cigarette endlessly burns without getting smaller).
The original song by The Passions is pretty bitchin’. In theory, I should like Taylor-Wood’s cover too, as Sam’s vocals are quite similar to Barbara Gogan’s and the guitar parts have been inventively replaced with a wavering and submerged-sounding keyboard and occasional static-y washes of sound. The track feels very suave and urbane, which is what I expect from the Pet Shop Boys. Unfortunately, the "clubby" beat and the slick production create an emotional distance that strongly detracts from the song's inherent wistfulness.
The four remixes are pretty homogenous, but I was admittedly startled by the satanic-sounding pitch-shifted vocals and dissonant orchestral swells at the end of the Pet Shop Boys remix. The "Stuck In The Eighties" remix by German producer Mark Reeder is quite fun (sexy thumping beats, clapping, breathy telephone line vocals, a New Order-esque synth bassline), but unfortunately quite bloated (it is over nine minutes long). On a related note, extreme music nerds may remember Reeder as a former member of short-lived and extremely unprolific Factory Records synthpop band Shark Vegas. As for the rest of the tracks, well...there's not much to say: the Gui Boratto remix doesn't especially stand-out much and the instrumental version of the Pet Shop Boys remix is howlingly inessential. Releasing this song as a five song EP was probably not a good idea, as no one wildly diverges from the source material, resulting in a sense of frustrating sameness and maddening filler. That's a shame, as it's essentially a damn good song, but it definitely yields diminishing returns when listened to five times in rapid succession.
Though I cannot fathom why anyone would need to hear all five versions of this song, I'm sure it will find a lengthy and fruitful life wherever people congregate to dance. And in England, apparently, as it debuted at number one on the BBC dance chart. And, of course, it is always appreciated when people are given reason to revisit great postpunk songs. I am eager to see what this intrepid threesome tackles next.
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Tim Macuga and Dan Barrett's musical project is as much an ambitious and frustrating piece of conceptual art as it is a crushing and soaring rock record. Composed over a five year period, Deathconsciousness was produced with only the most basic equipment, is accompanied by a 70 page booklet describing a dead religion, and features cover art ripped right from Jacques-Louis David's overtly political masterpiece, La Mort de Marat. The music is excellent, but making sense of the rest of this monstrosity isn't easy.
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Organized as two distinct albums, Deathconsciousness is a sprawling record filled with suggestive lyrics about desperation, nihilism, failure, suffering, and the inescapable progress of time. The lyrics are not poetic nor are they sophisticated, but they aren't angst-ridden contrivances, either and they suit the macabre nature of the music very well. The music itself is filled with sizzling guitars, massive and repetitive rhythms, echoing synthesizer effects, and dramatic melodies, both vigilant and resigned, that give the album an epic scope. Yet, despite all these severe devices, the band's name is Have a Nice Life and they title their songs like they're jokes: "Waiting for Black Metal Records to Come in the Mail" and "Holy Fucking Shit: 40,000" are perfect examples. In addition to these odd contrasts, the band has gone through the trouble of producing a 70 page accompanying book supposedly written by a professor of religious anthropology and history at the University of Massachusetts, Amherst. Whether or not the book has anything to do with the album is questionable; while direct lines can be drawn between the text in the book and the lyrics to some of the songs, it isn't clear which of the two came first. I am suspicious that the book could be a ruse meant to cover up the fact that all of these songs are intensely personal, but the lengths to which this duo went to cover that fact up is fairly astonishing. A lot of work clearly went into putting this whole thing together, but figuring out how all the pieces fit is more difficult than it should be.
Despite the mixed messages the liner notes inspire, the music is varied, smart, and wonderfully dark. Have a Nice Life combine the brute force of thundering drums with hazy, fuzzed out guitar lines, lead melodies played out on the bass, and emotive, almost yearning vocals. They protract the basic rock template and add a healthy dose of atmospheric sound effects and synthesizer leads not unlike those you'd expect to hear from an anthemic 80s opus. Bits of staccato guitar meet with noise solos, buried vocal mumblings, persistent percussion, and lo-fi stereo confusion to produce everything from meditative non-songs ("Hunter") to feverish rock 'n' roll ("Waiting for Black Metal Records...") and acoustic balladry with cheap drum loops ("Holy Fucking Shit: 40,000"). The group will often focus on texture more than melody, but never at the expense of a strong melodic center. Their voices are often anxious and thirsty, maybe even overly emotive, but the intensity of their deliveries matches the music's fevered pitch perfectly. The production can be mildly aggravating, however, and sometimes it detracts from the strong melodies and lyrics more than it should. But on the whole the under-produced aesthetic works perfectly for the music.
There are several details that keep the album from being a complete success, however. Whoever wrote that 70 page document needs to be slapped for being too dull, too often. The book focuses on the history of a fictional religious sect centered around the person of Antiochus. This sect apparently left behind a number of oral and written fragments that tell the story of a horrifying prophet who praised nihilism and preached a philosophy of suicide and murder. At first the book is ponderous and seems completely unnecessary, but reading it while listening to the album proved to be exciting at times. Some of the stories in the book are genuinely frightening and left an impression on me, but the pseudo-academic posturing that makes up the majority of the book is absolutely unnecessary. Long foot-notes, poor poetry, and efforts to sound professional all end up making the book a trial more than a joy. Also, the aforementioned song titles may seem like a small thing to complain about, but if a group is going to go through the effort to create an illusion of mysticism and mystery, then they might as well follow through on even the smallest details. As it stands, I get the impression the band were unwilling to follow their idea all the way through to its conclusion. Nevertheless, the music keeps me coming back and the entirety of the project succeeds often enough to warrant attention and praise. I am ultimately picking apart something to which I am very drawn. I just want the band to keep falling down that rabbit hole instead of holding back.
Deathconsciousness is available online through Enemies List as an MP3 download only. All the physical copies have been sold, but the label charges a very low price for the download and have scanned the entire booklet into a nice PDF file, which is included with the purchase.
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Lucas Schleicher reviewed one of the other Merzbow releases this month, the collaboration with Richard Pinhas, Keio Line. Also having that album, I listened to it and agreed with Lucas’ summation: the balance of the two artists helped pull Akita out of his usual scraping noise and into something else entirely. Anicca, on the other hand, is not so different or unique. It’s sort of like a relative that you have fond childhood memories of, but once you visit them again, you realize they're sort of an asshole.
I, like many people of my ilk, first got into Merzbow when Relapse was hyping Venerology as THE most extreme recording EVER. It was the gateway drug for me into the noise scene, but even then, it lost some of its luster once I heard some of the other artists doing similar work. Because of that, my connection to Akita's work became casual at best: I'd pick up the odd album here or there, and I drooled over the Merzbox, but that was about it. So I wasn't privy to his dabbling with percussion, samples and laptop experiments.
Oddly enough, Anicca is a step back to his tabletops full of pedals and home-made metal instrument, which is pictured in the liner notes. So the overall sound through these three tracks is pretty much classic mid 1990s Merzbow, for better or worse. Clashing waves of noise and static, modulated feedback, overdriven blasts, etc. There does seem to be a greater attention to mixing and layering, which is pleasant to hear: it's not just about blowing out audio equipment when being played at low volumes.
One of the faults with this album is a whole is that it is front loaded with its most interesting track. The chirping bird sounds bathed in reverb cutting into a flanged noise squeal is nothing out of the ordinary, but for the entire track, Akita drums over the noise, always staying prominent in the mix. Obviously a free style jam, the rapid fire patterns lie somewhere between Lightning Bolt and Free Jazz era Ornette Coleman. Full of rapid fire snare rolls and aggravated assaults of tom drums, it's like every prog rock drum solo from the 1970s spliced into one track over the usual electronic din.
The remaining two tracks, unfortunately, forego the drums in favor of a pure noise attack. The second track allows more high frequency psychedelic swirls of noise, akin to Akita’s contemporaries C.C.C.C. over extended passages of feedback, quick cuts, and some sort of buried rhythmic elements, before ending more stripped down, with harsh Morse code tones and passages of pink noise. Track three has an overall hollow, reverbed sound to it, ending with heavy low end pulse that one could headbang to slowly if so inclined, and what sounds like some buried musical samples and noise rhythms resembling a grindcore tape played at quarter speed after being left in the sun for a few months.
The biggest problem with this is, it’s just regular Merzbow. After Keio Line's more innovative sounds and textures, this feels like a step backwards. While it has some good element for nostalgia, the older sounding tracks aren't motivating me to grab more Merz albums I might have missed, and after the more interesting introductory track, it feels kind of flat afterwards.
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