Articles by Jared Dix
Claw Marks take a cracked bucket and mix filthy garage punk with noise rock and stir in matted tales of the uncanny and unwholesome.
They are the nation’s most convivial improvisatory noise band, an ecstatic and celebratory communion. A Dionysian ritual both pagan and post industrial. If you haven’t seen them, I urge you to remedy that situation at the soonest possible opportunity.
In the wake of a turbulent first half of 2018 and ahead of the release of their new live album, Jared Dix talks road accidents & music with Matt from Sly & The Family Drone.
It moves at a doom like crawl but without any of the steady, numbing comforts of doom riffs. Instead it maintains a high end horror scream as slabs of sound smack into you. It’s like a distressed animal hit by a car, howling in terror and rage as it drags its crushed lower half behind it along the road. ‘Blood Loss’ is an intense blast of crushing noise and wailing despair, an ideal soundtrack to some of our summers then.
Of the many great things filling this weekend few can be as illustrative of Supersonic’s approach and its audience than the closing headline acts. An English folk singer in her 80’s and an American black metal band might appear at the furthest poles from one another, but that a considerable proportion of us aren’t sure which we’ll choose to watch, and that the deep currents that connect them seem natural and obvious, says much for the spirit of the festival.
There are no 4/4 party bangers here, Power is an abstract and emotionally expressive album of joy, pain and transformation.
The world, I have often observed, is far stranger than the rational mind would allow. The dense web of source materials and curious obfuscations gathered here is one a determined investigator might unravel in a short time but to no great gain. They should not be permitted to detract from the power of the oracles themselves. The recordings here are hallucinatory and compelling pieces.
Steeped in a blend of cold war paranoia and space race possibility Waiting For The Bomb presents a supremely evocative set of cinematic miniatures, each one charming and individual but teeming with remarkable details on closer listens.
As a whole the EP is a smartly chosen and brilliantly reworked set of tunes. It appears I have underestimated a band dressed as shrubbery, how could such a thing have happened?
Intention or the ‘hand of the artist’ seem absent from the picture as if the tape had captured ghosts in the studio. The music is full of soft drones and washes of sound in which more recognisable instrumentation appears briefly before dissolving, Czukay’s beloved short wave radio burbles in from time to time.
Hundreds Of Days is a thing of delicate, shimmering beauty. It wraps around you like a warm breeze in an unfamiliar place. It’s your new favourite harp record.
Across the record their tunes unfold in an unhurried and slightly directionless manner, turning this way and that on a whim. The journey has no particular goal, it’s all about the ride.
On his horror soundtrack for Hereditary, Colin Stetson opts for mood and texture throughout and when he pushes the discomfort into noise it’s gratifyingly abrasive at the same time as being densely layered up.
Warmduscher front like a barely capable garage band but there’s a fistful of styles dragged though the grinder for this twisted song cycle. Each one coated in their unique grime and carried off with lopsided élan.
It’s possible to hear the last 30 to 40 years of American avant rock spooling through the background of this album; no wave and hardcore, math rock, post-rock, noise rock all feed into it but none of them overpower the band’s own voice.
A totally raging crust punk joy, but one that’s finally had a bath and put on a clean T-shirt. It’s more than OK.
Sarah Louise is one half of House and Land, Deeper Woods is her solo Thrill Jockey debut and sees her take a decisive step by leading with her voice.
They do not mess about. Road tested and honed their songs have no fat on them, they’re short and punchy, packed with twists and turns, Dunstan’s literary meditations suddenly bursting into infectious terrace chant choruses at the drop of a bon mot.
It’s a wild eyed bonfire of exhausted expectations that reclaims the controlling dismissal “hysterical, irrational” as a fierce chant of identity. It’s a brilliant record, let it brighten your summer.
If Virtue Signals is not quite the ‘Brexit-themed rock opera’ Adams jokes it is, it still pokes its fingers into the cracks that have opened up but swerves the well worn arguments and clichés – nobody says the B word.
It’s spoken word kitchen sink poetry over clanky car boot electronics and it’s fantastic.