Articles by Jared Dix
In Blood is a remarkable achievement for a band this long in the tooth, you never want to skip a track and it always seems to be over too soon.
The kind of record that falls naturally to close reading among its fans and irritated shrugs among naysayers.
Their playing flows effortlessly, the band deep inside the music, the calm eye at the centre of their sonic storm.
Rejoice friends! If the endless rain doesn’t wash us all into the filthy sea then Supersonic festival will be upon us in less than a month’s time. An undoubted pinnacle of underground music’s calendar, this year it will be celebrating its twentieth birthday. . . It’s going to be quite a party, come ready. If you’re still dithering about that now is the time to commit.
Jared Dix had a word with vocalist Tom Whitfield from Birmingham noise punks Spits Milk about what he thought he was up to.
Loose and noisy as if they’re joyriding down the pacific coast highway. Jesus, they might even be enjoying themselves.
Drawing you quickly in, like the woods themselves it is dark and mysterious, beautiful and consoling.
A musical tonic to ease what ails you.
They continue to stand apart and Purge is up among their best work.
As with the music she maximises minimal elements giving the tracks a very open feel, small but spacious.
Each track is a chaotic snapshot from a winding journey through hidden worlds, a postcard trail of saturated colours and enigmatic inscriptions.
Essentially this is abstract, instrumental, electronic music that is a pleasure to listen to.
Iona cairns’ words flow in deceptively simple phrases often bearing sharp moments of recognition that can cut you.
Rhythmic and immediate they hit the sweet spot between engaging and unpredictable.
Not a particularly soothing listen but it is richly layered and fully realised.
They deliver not pastiche or parody but a finely tuned mix of doom and black metal.
It’s an absolute winner.
Slipping free of familiar structures the music flows and mutates. Pools of noise skimmed by clusters of beats.
Grips an unswerving momentum, dragging increasingly chaotic clamour in its wake as it goes.
Shackleton’s hallucinatory bass-murk meets the playful absurdist spirit of Scotch Rolex on a fun house glide.
Of course you love Mudhoney, what’s wrong with you? They’re only the band Nirvana could have been.