Adi’s grumbling through his vocals like Alberich the dwarf… “Ceaseless I toil”… you said it, love…
I mean everything’s cool and, (to quote Wymer from Vox von Braun), there are no problems, but… why on earth do the cars have to levitate above the tarmac tonight?
Finally tiring of wondering when the singer’s going to stop acting like a villain from a Buster Keaton film and “get it on” and suck the blood of a virgin, we look around. It looks like a webmaster’s conference.
It’s akin to listening to an audition to become NL’s number one flood defence warning system.
The Big Mango is a glorious mess, a true sonic jumble mixing all sorts of sounds that titillate the senses; at one turn it could be a Moondog record, at another it tries to convince you it’s a Soft Machine outtake.
Dare comes along and lights a psychic firework in what I imagined to be an increasingly dull landscape.
So: if you like modulated synth patterns that hark back to a sort of (imagined) utopian era of cosmic rock, especially ‘73-77, you’ll eat this up.
Villain doesn’t have to force her personality or her problems down your throat in an effort to show she’s trying or “solved shit” after all. This is what she’s made, and you dig it or you don’t.
The sense of defiant melancholy is all over tracks like All This Time, or the incredibly catchy opener, The Wrong Way. It’s very Marc Almond.
Yet despite these preparations. Despite my dreams. I was violated in an exhibition centre by four Geordies old enough to be my father. It wasn’t special or intimate, and certainly wasn’t how I’d imagined it.
Alone and a long way from home our tremulous author embarks on the dread journey home but is quickly distracted from the task at hand, taking solace in cancelled television programmes and ludicrous blockbusters starring Dennis Hopper, and he wonders why he spends his life scrawling nonsense in a garret rather than playing an active role in society.
So, the squid was beaming some essential info to me after all. We both transmitted and received; yowsa, yowsa, yowsa. Consider this writer a fan of Divorce.
...the onus is on you the listener to put the spadework in to better reveal its charms. It’s akin to being at a party with the lights down low, stumbling around and trying to find groovy people to latch onto.
Them Germans eh?, with their Grünewald and Dix; all this confessional expressionism… it can make you quite dizzy.
It’s a great mix of demented and whacked out; albeit a sort of demented that catches you unawares – like the Devil in The Master & Margarita, it’s too suave to show all its tricks at once.
It’s certainly their best balanced record too, so smooth that it engages your subconscious a LONG time before the rest of your brain catches up. I bet you that you only notice it’s actually on when Kissing The Surface starts.
This is a marvellous LP; one which employs a mix of mad sounds and considerable know how. Not to mention bags of charm. At times it’s a weird pop master class.
Maybe Hunter Complex are serial sentimentalists. A lot of the tracks do have a marked sentimental edge, like Serious Glass or the brilliant Space, which nabs Seeing Out the Angel’s key pattern from the Minds’ Sons & Fascination.