Vertigo is the latest album by Wand that was created kind of backwards apparently, they recorded 50 hours of them jamming in the studio first, before slicing and dicing, re-arranging and over dubbing, further re-arranging, Cutting and inserting, switching instruments and roles, until it all somehow sounds like a mainly coherent whole. Wand are Evan Backer, Cory Hanson, Evan Burrows and Robert Cody who play viola, cello, Drums, violin, contrabass, flute, Guitar, trumpet, french horn, trombone, tuba, saxophone, and sensory percussion between them.
The album opens with the pulsing sonar oddness of Hangman, like the condemned, is being walked towards the gallows through a fog, of dark room electronics, high pitched vocals extemporizing a tale, shimmered guitars needing transformation that never comes, he awakens once more, tripped out glimpses of another tattooed reality. Fuzzed flirtations he places that noose around another tremolo arm, switch play soothed by mellowing strings of that Curtain Call.
Mistletoe involved super odd squelchy beats, odd refracted key sounds, rather than wine, you take a long nighttime drive in search of some Mistletoe sold by Richard Gotteherer in the Night Time, tubas chamber of klezmeric despair sweeping through the starlight harp flourishes.
JJ hasn't crashed on Cales cocaine, ominous bleak tale begins negotiating complexities of bass strums, piano bath plonks, screaming out not to be compared to Thom Yorke, floats through key changes perceptive shifts, chimes float through frozen in time Choir falling out of sky.
Smile is the main single, radiating sunshine love and blissed out feelings, reverbing through your heart, notes twist fixating my ears on the one long massive solo, everything else metastasizes around accentuating the quasar spectrum shifts, astral awakening right through the night towards that morning light, buzzing guitar trickery.
Lifeboat pulsates in the water's sonar scoping radio glitches, can the boat find that stranded singer, wobbleboard like pulsations twangs across the reefs, tweaked trumpets, crab like walking drums, depth open yawning swells surf encompassing resonances.
High Time they got even noisier, nastier, glitchier, tired they might be, but however out of you mind this makes you, a pop song is raging to get out of the musical madness, scrap metal yard This Heat with aspirations of Spiritualized layered beyond orchestral mega band complexity, anthemic rush of massive proportions.
The album closes with Seaweed Head a gentle table, strings flutetastic folkloric journey along the metaphorical beach, besides the wood's shimmers to a conclusion among the collusion of collaborations.
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