radio free midwich

the rfm lunchtime recital programme #1: black_ops, grant evans, dag rosenqvist, kevin sanders, club sound witches

black_ops – perdition (self-released download)

Grant Evans – Silent Refusal (tape, Invisible City Records, ICR16, edition of 50 or download)

Dag Rosenqvist – Vowels (12″ clear vinyl, Awkward Formats, AF08)

Kevin Sanders – Doors do shut themselves, but like graves astride birth, the open window is there to catch us (3” CD-r, hairdryer excommunication, edition of 10 or download)

Club Sound Witches – Uprok (tape or download, Junk Mnemonic, JM#4)

Introduction

A new tactic.  The lunchtime recital programme will be a series of short reviews published in batches approximately once a fortnight.  This is me laying down some spontaneous thoughts following one or two listens as I commute or enjoy a midday stroll.  Hopefully, this will fill gaps between my less frequent, lengthier reviews and op-ed pieces and act as a kind of regular jet-wash for my brain. Right then, off we go…

black_ops – perdition

The ominous pulse-breath of RED war machines idling on the Culverian tundra is naturally reverbed by a nearby crevasse.  An injured BLUE soldier finds himself trapped there listening, delirious.  The distorted synth washes of the final, title track have the tragic/grandiose feel of the conclusion to a SF dystopia movie of the 1970s – maybe the suicide scene of the disgraced BLUE general.  The claustrophobic scrabbling added right at the end being his feeble attempt to clutch at his meaningless medals.

This release is: short, bleak, good.

Grant Evans – Silent Refusal

Evans, a new name to me, presents the sort of high quality, richly textured, characterful drone that sets my metaphor engine spinning.  It is balanced with the gravity defying tension of a snail sliding along the jagged edge of piece of broken glass.  It has the inexorable, hubris exposing/destroying momentum of a lava flow rolling over a car park full of military vehicles.  It’s as compellingly unnerving as a slow-motion film of a giant octopus escaping into open water via an impossibly small hole in a glass tank.  Another belter from Invisible City Records.

Dag Rosenqvist – Vowels

Make sure your ear buds are in snug as these exquisite crescendos of hiss are carried on a tidal wash of bass.  Like fellow blog-fave Joined By Wire, Dag Rosenqvist appears to sculpt from slabs of raw emotion.  Thus, despite clearly being the product of great craft, patience and ambition, the experience of listening to these pieces bypasses the cerebral and vibrates heart strings directly.

I admit the Vangelisian sheen of the final of these four tracks lost me a little but I appreciated the relatively positive vibe it ended on.  Difficult to find fault with the prior three tracks though – not only did they press my buttons, they leant an elbow on them and used their free hand to clutch my shoulder reassuringly.  I would, of course, love to see the dance performance that this music was composed for – the mind boggles.

Kevin Sanders – Doors do shut themselves, but like graves astride birth, the open window is there to catch us

18 minutes of utter nihilism in three movements.  The first section is a six minute panic attack – a decision has been taken, the consequences are hurtling towards us but all attempts to change gear or direction are useless.  Keys spin in locks, nothing has any grip.  The second, shortest, section is the moment of violence itself.  A hive is kicked over, split – the swarm inside gathering fury.  The frayed tether of a snarling dog finally snaps.  Raskolnikov looks down at the axe in his hand.  The final section, maybe half the total running length, settles into an existential resignation – the slowing heartbeat of an injured and freezing mountaineer, the blood’s retreat.

Christ, Kev – what the hell do we do with this, eh?

Club Sound Witches – Uprok

When this began I had my doubts but after a few minutes I began to tune in to its wonky charm.  The scrunching loops, pulses of grating hiss, synthy pops and noodles, nee-naw rhythms of battery-bled toy instruments combine into a playdoh monster greater than the sum of its neon coloured parts.  Listening is a surprisingly intimate experience, not entirely comfortable, but there is something…  I dunno… naughty about it.  It’s like being the recipient of a clumsy, affectionate massage – complete with accidental inappropriate touching – from a friend trying to hide just how drunk they are…

—ooOoo—

black_ops

Invisible City Records

Awkward Formats

hairdryer excommunication

Junk Mnemonic