I’ve listened to this thrice, only because Mats G was involved. Wonder how many times the perpetrators have listened it themselves. Like sat down, concentrated, listened to it. But instead of discussing tragic band names with irresponsible punctuation use (speaking of which, I just read an utterly crap crop of “hipster Norg music blogs” at HISS!G), here’s three approaches to this music.
Call it art. Art in a PVP purple crocodile, ornamented in styrofoam pyramids of poo-poo. Call the statue “Twiggy”, put it a modern art museum, call it symbolism, repression, a statement on the non-elliptical nature of some conundrum. Call it art the way a hoodlum from Queens will throw out TVs from the second floor, let it smash on the street, jumbled with a bunch of broken desks and ripped up couches. Take a picture, put it in a museum and call it art.
You get what I mean. When I used to live in Nottingham, every two weeks we had these promoters who’d bring in bands like this, you know, improv-jazz-noise stuff. You know, the joyous racket. Another joyous racket. Incestuous locals always putting together a hodge podge of 30 minute raucous in the basement of pubs, with a loyal following. I guess I was one. Occasionally invited professionals, Ruins-sounding acts from New York, or bands sounding like Cleveland’s Scarcity of Tanks or Sunburned Hand of the Man. Japanese fill in the blank. Some more easily to apprehend then others, depending where they went to school, and how poor they were. The richer, the more incomprehensible, I guess. Some people have less liberties to detract from a semblance of a song. Unless you’re plain gifted, born to deconstruct Miles Davis’s peanuts into gold.
Approach number two: be the numb nut ding-dong with long greasy hair mindlessly nodding along.
Approach number three: There is no approach number three. This is senseless shit you fuck, stop wasting my time.
My approach is a combination of the three. Music like this you consume and dispose, put back on the shelf to collect dust. It ain’t soundtrack music to your first kiss, or music you jog to, or music for sweet dreams. It’s a tad bit headache music, and bit o’ revolutionary music.
Aptly titled tracks, “Start First”, “End”, then the final twenty plus minute track, “Second”. To dig into the nitty gritty good stuff, you gotta endure long intros. In fact, the whole process, as most live performances go, improves chronologically and after significant repetition. Opener “Start First” unfortunately reminds me of the randomness and anonymous nature of aforementioned pub nights. Preaching to the choir.
Numero dos only continues to solidify the fact that no underground noise professional makes a career outta singular hits or tracks, but rather, connected pieces of a larger (burp) montage. That’s why it seems like so many noise artists disseminate so fucking much shit. It’s my fucking ouevre, man!
Last track takes a turn for the better. We really begin to see the welding of four forces (Christian Winther on guitar, Magnus Neegaard on bass, Joakim Heiboe on drums, and Kenny, I mean Mats G sax.) Snakey guitar riffs, plummeting bass and good rhythms. Hard, catchy punk moments, a bit like early Noxagt. Not to mention Lasse Marhaug behind the knobs, involved with mixing and mastering. The sound quality is alright. This track is pretty alright. Dig in.