As to the rest, well you can SMELL the perfume in the conditioner they used. These cats are SCRUBBED, me hearties. What to do about that? Well they can watch the fucking Sugar Coated Mindbombs, that’s what.
There’s a reason we’re not called The Blissful Joy of Living. Maybe it’s not as blunt now that the songs are changing and there’s a little more room to breathe.
I’d wager this record (if the tooth whitened media-savvy robots and tablet botherers that constitute the Palace Guard at Bastille Hilversum give it the RIGHT AMOUNT OF EXPOSURE) could be the soundtrack of the summer in Holland.
I am reminded of the (surely) apocryphal story that Terry Thomas told about a pie manufacturer in the Midlands, who, on being asked about the secret of his factory’s productivity, replied: “oh I don’t do anything difficult old boy. I just lean out of the window and shout, “Faster you fuckers!”
To me natural imagery can be very rich, it has a lot of symbolical value, it works well to draw parallels between natural phenomena and feelings or moods or human nature in general.
What is especially galling is that despite being just over 30 minutes in duration, nearly half is remixes.
Floristry does not break any new ground, and it lacks a bit of variety and emotional depth, but Trick Mammoth are very young, barely out of their teens, and, bearing this in mind, this is an exceptional debut.
For sure there is always an element of looking back to “better times”, and there were moments during the night where I thought I was watching some part of my memory served up as a hologram.
Things are stripped down, the bedsit Ganja-fug that often enveloped previous efforts has cleared up and we get to hear her tales of loss and heartbreak in the round.
Shiny Darkly have a discovered that Chameleons sound in a dusty old box in a Copenhagen attic (probably left there around 2003)and treated it to a bit of a rub down with the best sonic beeswax on the market. In fact, they’ve taken it out, reclothed it and given it a slap up lunch, if you take the contents of this record at face value.
Every compilation seems to throw up a new verbal construct; this time we have The Ritualistic Mating Dance of the West Highland White Terrier and the Fluorescent Floating Human Eyeball (Eggnog Variant #4). And it sounds like?
Just by picking up phrases that float around Holland like confetti and throwing them back at the populace, Rooie Waas flit about, acting like court jesters to the oceans of unsmiling commuters on the Rotterdam – Amsterdam trains; and whisper the most banal thoughts back at people.
On another level, it’s a brilliant release, playing around with all the sounds that you’re not supposed to like; throwing Gabriel, Hammill, Yes, and a whole host of other things about with abandon.
Be warned! This LP – like a lot of his solo LPs it seems -has a sinister ability to smooch along in the background, without you ever really engaging with it.