Backward tracks, exotic strings and incidental drumstick percussion kick off the sixth album from electronica would-be groundbreakers Ollie Brown and Sam Britton – aka ICARUS - whose recording career to date has seen their work released on a variety of labels.
Heavily involved in ‘music research’, their first for new label Rump treads the fine line between experimentalism and utter cack (and in this sense is likely to get them more in the way of academic recognition than artistic kudos). Extreme bravery, or blind, anal retention? It brings to mind all those failed attempts to get around those Criminal Justice Bill restrictions that refer to ‘repetitive beat’ music, back in the day, when the clampdown on our right to party led to a legal moving of the goalposts. Without repetitive beats, the sense and shape of techno is lost, and only a cold and abrasive noise remains, scratchy and uninviting.
With the bass levels almost overloading as opener ‘Keet’ progresses, the random vibrations continue within a hollow void ruled by waves of static interference. A place where bass drum beats are sampled and our sonic sense of perspective gets due consideration thanks to the odd distant ping.
Off comes the lid of the piano, for the second track, ‘Rugkiks’ as the seamless tapping picks up where it left off, the drumsticks in their element at the inner workings like a kid dragging a stick along iron railings.
As the sounds begin to shift, ‘Sylt’ seems to consist more and more of layers of feedback. Heavy reverb precedes a bass purr, as more unidentified tapping objects (beer bottles, ‘scratch’ vinyl sounds and the like) make their random/incidental mark on the odd, loop-based texture. Reminiscent of minimalism in places, the bubble and squeak approach intensifies as the tracks become increasingly cluttered.
|
Layered chiming sounds from ticking clocks of all shapes and sizes are interspersed with high-pitched buzzing sounds as the stop-start dynamics finally begin to work according to a vague sense of rhythm. This is submerged in a car horn cacophony, as we fade out to the sound of heavy (possibly Latin American) traffic.
For the avid student of this type of thing, there are perhaps some elements of vague interest. Musically, we’re talking complete deconstruction. With no rhythm, no melody, all that remains is sound. Sound we can hear any time we take our fingers out of our ears. Give me the work of primary schoolchildren – songs written in 4/4 time on three chords – any day of the week over this.
God only knows what the accompanying visuals are like, but I’d put money on it that a projector is involved in the performance. Avoid it.
|
