Trevor Powers—Capricorn

Capricorn is a series of self-interruptive vignettes, which defamiliarise the known world to forge one of their own. This album’s composition followed a severe panic attack, after which Trevor Powers—and his instruments and recording equipment—retreated for a month to a remote cabin in Idaho. Self-imposed exile is almost a clichéd part of the songwriting process at this point: I’ve heard some refer to it as “doing a Bon Iver”. But the results here, a wonderfully isolated and singular LP, speak for themselves.

There’s an ordered chaos to Capricorn which feels like channel-hopping. The album fully develops its every idea, but discards them the second it does so. Songs disrupt and disorient in a similar way to Macintosh Plus’ ‘Sick & Panic’, forming shapes too angular and spiky to hold. Miraculously, Powers herds these ideas into one barn: what holds Capricorn together is its mysterious and muggy timbre. Production throughout suggests a spectral presence; a constant intrusion of the past. It’s as though radio transmissions are trying to puncture the album’s surface, or that it’s being played on a turntable whose needle is pommelled with dust.

Through this chaos, Powers permits more than a few moments of beauty. When these moments do arrive, such as in the conclusion of ‘Earth to Earth’, they come unannounced. Powers makes mention of “our digital coma” in his notes for Capricorn—and these sudden bursts of sublime melody are like a defibrillation. The shock widens the eyes, opens the ears and shakes loose the dust of apathetic modern living.

Powers refers in the same notes to “ancient folklore”. This is most obviously felt through the album’s traditional instrumentation. But it also points to something deeper: the performative nature of folklore and its ritual traditions. Evidence of these concepts can be felt in ‘The Riverine’, whose mantra-like repetition and Koto styling suggests a theatre of the everyday—an extension of the idea of “coma” in which we apathetically float down channels of masked life.

There’s no doubting Powers’ credentials at this point (these self-titled projects following years working as Youth Lagoon), but it’s still worth mentioning how well-conceived and confident Capricorn is. Powers’ work is bolstered by stellar mixing and mastering, courtesy respectively of Jason Kingsland and Heba Kadry. The sound is clear to the extent that you’ll be looking over your shoulder, convinced that somewhere among the scrapes and thunks, something in your house fell over. There’s great use of space, too; ‘A New Name’ is vast and mysterious, like it was recorded in the same bat-packed cave as Björk’s ‘Cover Me’.

The real showstopper is ‘2166’, the album’s final track, whose vocals are so heavily post-processed they sound like a droplet of water skidding round in an oily pan. Beneath them is a piano line dying in distortion, and slow, quiet, laboured breathing. The track has an elegiac, sad sense of finality. It’s the perfect note on which to end an album that invigorates throughout, on both an emotional and a formal level.

Capricorn is available for purchase and streaming here.

Words: Andrew O’Keefe

Black Marble—I Must Be Living Twice

Roughly six months ago, Sacred Bones reissued Etazhi, a 2018 album by Belarusian coldwave trio Molchat Doma. The album’s initial release had met no fanfare. But over the course of the following year it gained an enormous viral following, unofficially hosted on (essential) youtube channels like Mx. TV-8-301 and Harakiri Diat. It’s hard to identify why this music resonated so deeply and so broadly—but one thing was impossible to ignore. Coldwave was back, now a fully-fledged phenomenon that sprung sprinting from its late-80s grave.

Like it or not, the decade is survived by its dark side as its social upheavals rejoin us, lurching closer in the rear-view and groaning, “did you think I’d go down with Thatcher?” Sacred Bones have anticipated this for yonks, recording John Carpenter’s every sneeze and packaging them in limited-edition Pumpkin Orange, Arctic Blue, Fog Grey 2LP sets. But it’s Black Marble who is perhaps the label’s most earnest and endearing reflection of this style.

Here he appies his sonic approach to five covers from five different artists, somehow finding common ground between Robert Palmer and Grouper along the way. The bad news: the result is not altogether successful. Black Marble homogenises songs on this EP to the point that they blur into pastiches which, while diverting, can feel quite anonymous. Something is unwaveringly lost in translation, and none of the tracks threatens to dethrone their progenitors. Black Marble doesn’t bring enough of his own fire to compensate, either. It’s almost impressive that an EP situated within a genre defined by its apathetic delivery can feel phoned-in—but that’s unfortunately the case here.

Perhaps this assigns too much responsibility to a project which is, ultimately, throwaway. After all, Black Marble didn’t seek to record ‘old songs, but better’. He instead aimed to capture the trill of shaking up “an otherwise rehearsed feeling [live] set” by sprinkling in the material as a surprise. The problem is that we’re not listening to a live set; we’ve already seen the tracklist. The project consequently offers very little surprise at all.

The first four tracks of I Must Be Living Twice are at least energetic. Their guiding principle seems not to be limpid nostalgia, but something more immediate; an awareness that yes, people actually danced to this coldwave stuff and, yes, they still want to now, actually. It’s clear that Black Marble has a really admirable focus and understanding of their own style, and doesn’t imagine Joy Division playing to a motionless, reverent, hushed audience. But style here swamps substance, leaving a vague hauntological mess. The most exciting thing on here is ‘Poison Tree’, a Grouper cover which colours Liz Harris’ trademark spaces with a cold brutalism, and displays some wonderful production. This should tide most existing fans over until Black Marble’s next release, but it’s unlikely to win many new ones.

I Must Be Living Twice is available for pre-order and streaming here.

Words: Andrew O’Keefe

The Microphones—Microphones in 2020

For Microphones in 2020, Phil Elverum resurrects a long-dead nom de plume under which he recorded much of his most enduring and beloved work. Elverum has been a bold and restless artist throughout his decades-long career, which arguably came to a head with the passing of his partner Geneviève Castrée in 2016. In the wake of that loss, Elverum disparaged the mystic introspection that characterised his early work and turned to raw, brutal realism. A door had been opened, or closed, it seemed, forever.

The title of Microphones in 2020 is consciously absurd. If Elverum has outgrown soul-searching, why resurrect the project? And what place does it have in a year which has seen far greater focus on community action and the collective good than personal stability and mental health?

It’s a welcome surprise then, to find The Microphones’ sound almost unchanged from its past life 17 years ago. Very little has been ‘transformed’ or ‘modernised’; Elverum’s warm and melancholic guitar has the same old tone, his bass still buzzes and drums clip uncontrollably. The waves of distortion feel like an old friend. This plays into the lyrical content of the album rather neatly, as Elverum lists off production techniques, inspirations and aspirations of his early twenties. It’s a kind of straight-faced self-parody, almost like an experimental exercise; “can I return to this point in my life? Does it still exist?”

There’s a security that comes with age; an assured voice, confidence, balance, the ability to assert, relax, listen, make plans. Old Microphones feels like raw nerves kneaded by brass knuckles, born from the fire and confusion of troubled youth. In an edition of the podcast Song Exploder, focused on his track ‘I Want Wind To Blow’, you can almost hear Elverum’s cringing and wincing as he tries to reconcile his twenty-year-old voice with that of his late thirties. But perhaps that’s where Geneviève comes in, albeit indirectly. It’s only human to treat companions as vessels for your own stability, your own sense of self, to the point that when “the beast of uninvited change” visits, an entire life falls into disorder and must be radically reshuffled. Old doubts, fears, uncertainties and modes of expression wash back ashore, suddenly as acute as they felt all those years ago.

All this retrospection could’ve been arrogant, self-serving, self-mythologizing. You only have to look to Mark Kozelek’s recent work for that. But Microphones in 2020 is too wry and objective to fall into those traps. It explores how seriously we take ourselves when we’re young, how earnest and impassioned we can be, discussing how goofily endearing and valiant that outlook is. Elverum sings of him and his friends, “we’d go on the roof at night and actually contemplate the moon”. It’s a refreshing counterpoint to the popular notion that idealism and imagination die before you hit double figures. They’re visible in most of us long after that point and never die, lying dormant but rumbling, waiting to squeak out of the cracks.

Microphones in 2020 is just as confrontationally personal as 2016’s A Crow Looked At Me. It’s actually helped by its distance from Geneviève’s death, Elverum’s laser focus given permission to roam rather than firing again and again on the same open wound. There are moments of ecstatic beauty here which 2016 Elverum would not have allowed in his work. And a long-dormant sound is resurrected, every bit as fresh as it was all those years ago.

Microphones in 2020 is available for purchase and steaming here. Watch the audio/visual presentation below.

Words: Andrew O’Keefe

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Ganser—Just Look At That Sky

Just Look At That Sky is well-served by its own simplicity. Simplicity here doesn’t mean complacence; Ganser’s spirited performances are anything but. Instead, it speaks to a nailing of the fundamentals; a non-exclusive prioritisation of assurance over ambition, and a rare but very welcome clarity of purpose. And let’s be honest: when many people describe an album as “ambitious”, what they really mean is “expensive-sounding” anyway. Here simplicity provides a space which Ganser fill with their gusto, charm and technical expertise.

The band serve up—with Devo-like precision—a powerfully-delivered medley of fist-pumping post-punk hits, shot through with naked brutality, and peppered with deft experimental touches. Melodies are consciously simple, sustained by vocalist Nadia Garofalo’s easy charisma and gravelly timbre. They benefit too from a stable guitar tone and an unfussy, clear mix. Compositions consequently feel much more complex and dynamic than they actually are; essentially, you can keep track of everything at the same time as it’s blowing your mind.

Withholding so much actually requires more courage than a maximalist approach. Ganser are confident enough in the success of their ideas not to try and dilute or disguise them. Far more touching in practice than bands who blast platitudes from megaphones are ones who feel as though they are conferring a secret directly into your ear. Ganser have the wisdom to distinguish impact from amplification; power from noise. That’s probably how they manage to wring so much enjoyment from an album which sounds like it was recorded in a hyperbaric chamber the size of a caravan.

If all this makes Just Look At That Sky sound one-note, it’s not. There is a lot of diversity to be found throughout the album. A late explosion of sunshine in the tracklist, ‘[NO YES]’, garnishes its bright instrumental hook with samples from a vintage interview. The track works beautifully; think the early (good) work of Public Service Broadcasting, or a less frightening My Life in the Bush of Ghosts.

On the less breezy side is ‘Projector’, a lean track propelled by Alicia Gaines’ beefy bass. The track is surprisingly dark; brunt-treacle-y enough to have sat on Savages’ debut, Silence Yourself. Garofalo even channels the quasi-cabaret delivery of ex-Savages vocalist Jehnny Beth. Yet another contrasting mood immediately follows ‘Projector’, as ‘Emergency Equipment and Exits’ flips the script into jubilant new-wave territory with an instrumental as lush as any in Echo & the Bunnymen’s catalogue. (And bonus points: it doesn’t even come off in a cringe, Stranger-Things sort of way like these things often can.)

That so many very different tracks can invisibly share space is testament to Ganser’s gentle touch. Nothing is jarring on this album—but almost everything is surprising. Ganser constantly push, but do not shove. As kind people speak through deeds, not words, talented musicians never scream proclamations of their own talent, but commit to their craft. Ganser seem intimately aware of their own strengths and musical proclivities and, with single-minded and admirable determination, have channelled them into a hugely enjoyable album.

Just Look At That Sky is available for purchase and streaming here.

Words: Andrew O’Keefe

Dehd—Flower of Devotion

In what has become their trademark, Dehd take a consciously no-frills approach with new album Flower of Devotion. The trio are courageous enough to shed window-dressings of cool and quirk to produce lean, focused music whose power resides in its simplicity. This doesn’t belie a lack of ambition—instead speaking to a rare confidence and conceptual rigour. It feels like before they even recorded a note, Dehd knew exactly how this album would sound.

In fact, they probably did. Flower of Devotion, more than any album in recent memory, sounds like it was recorded live. Anyone who’s listened to an album by Aussie psych band The Murlocs can attest to how great that can be. The timing couldn’t be better, as thousands lie in desperate drought of live experiences on measly hits of studio-recorded methadone.

And, like a gig, Flower of Devotion compresses and steals time. You’re propelled through the album like a bullet, barely touching the sides before you’re done. Songs rarely break the three-minute mark and repetition is used to pounding effect. Eric McGrady’s sloppy George-of-the-Jungle drums are so infectious I wouldn’t be surprised if they extend lockdown for a few months.

This sense of fun is what characterises Dehd against a wave of sadcore indie music. The genre overflows with songs about ones that got away, ones who never showed up in the first place; you get the idea. Dehd don't seem to interested in this, and aren’t so insufferably self-conscious to worry more about their categorisation than their content. It feels like they just love the sound of electric guitars, drums, and amplified voices, with a mentality which could easily transfer to ale-chugging party metal.

Like Hookworms (before their unfortunate career-ending controversy), or indie elder gods Black Kids, Dehd capture everything the genre has ever hoped to. They achieve the magic trick of simplicity that’s impossible to replicate or analyse. Flower of Devotion is never trite, never frivolous, but instantly makes the world feel like an easier place to be in.

It has a sound which is now nostalgic, carrying associations from before politics was a theatre of reactionaries, incendiary enough to split families; before the internet was awash with apathy and cynicism, and anything felt possible. The sun is shining brighter today than it has all year long. I’m not convinced Dehd didn’t summon it.

Flower of Devotion is available for purchase and streaming here. Do yourself a favour.

Words: Andrew O’Keefe