Articles by Jon Buckland
The pair’s music gnaws like forgotten memories and treasured recollections coming back in broken fragments. Misremembered and patched together.
Like witnessing the solemn performance of an ancient rite that somehow pierces through your shield of disbelief and touches you deeply. It is careful, considered, patient, and provoking.
Hval has actively encouraged others to share in this process and, as a result, this has led to her most incisive, stirring, and, dare I say it, catchy record yet.
It is maximalist devastation. Industrial revenge. Club music for doomsday cults.
What this pair do succeed in doing is delicately inverting expectations and understanding through curling layers of textures and drones.
Despite being a frail whip of a release (it clocks in at sub ten minutes), the level of fragile beauty on display far exceeds its brief length. Only You is a tremendous proponent of quality over quantity.
Everything is manipulated. Time flows in all directions. Sounds mystify and beguile. This is sonic mastery as mysticism, as method of control.
There are undeniable hooks laden throughout. Lines that will burrow deep into your subconscious and lay dormant only to be sifted out and spun internally at a later date.
There is plenty to unpack beneath this caustic juggernaut, but even a coast across the surface is rewarding enough.
The whole album is chock-full of fun as it rampages from one over-egged, over-clocked, and over-the-damn-top composition to the next. It takes the theatricality of operatic performance and threads it through with an explosive and wild extreme metal performance.
That Sunn O))) can keep releasing albums that are this fantastically captivating is practically absurd. By all rights their music ought to feel like rank repetition. Like it is kicking up old, worn, ground. And yet, instead, this feels full of vitality. It’s fresh and demanding of your attention.
A work of heaving emotional frailty.
The musical equivalent of wet eyes looking out across the empty rooftops of a lonely city at night, watching the twinkle of streetlights mesh with the stars.
This serves as a little time-travelling gift which Peter Broderick has been able to deliver as if spurred on from the past. It was encoded for the one but is relatable to so many.
When they shift off of the beaten path into untrammelled sounds, Low’s noise is that of a dense unravelling. It is furrowed from fathomless depths. It is the sedate carnage of planetary creation, of rushing magma, and swelling seas.
HEALTH are envisioned as a digital, sonic militia dispatching waves of audial gunfire whilst a honey-voiced dictator enchants his republic with vague, nihilist rhetoric.
Due out early next year, The Quiet Earth is a tinder box of curiosities.
Here we have an album that shifts from jubilant hip hop instrumentals into the depths of a funeral dirge before ascending into a post-rock pomp.
These are not sweet sounds of hope and survival. This is the grainy submission of Begotten. The clawing hands of wretched scum. The swallowing of black tar and the breathing of piled earth.
Perched precariously between the constant sweeps of Lubomyr Melnyk and the atonal work of Steve Reich, Baber has captured a soothing set of sounds that show technical dexterity whilst embodying a cheerfulness that is neither mawkish or saccharine.
There is something inherently watery in Ólafur Arnalds’ sounds. That is not to say weak, but dappled and flowing. Of natural rhythms and glinting possibility. It’s also music that is aware of an unruly danger. A fluid threat. And in that lies the trickle of melancholy, of potential fear, that pervades re:member.