No, your eyes do not deceive you, the cat hasn’t run over the keyboard. Nor is this an optician’s test board.
Belgian mouthful Hypochristmutreefuzz (named after an avant garde jazz composition by Misha Mengelberg) release second long-player Hypopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia (‘the fear of long words’). Head-wrecking tongue-twisting out of the way, what does it SOUND like?
In a never-ending epoch of disposable, hyper-consumptive indigestible crap-pap this is the antidote. Strange sonics, eerie vocals and a mish-mash of styles that as a whole make up the most original release I’ve heard this year. Songs stop and twist, drop and persist when you least expect, equally confounding and astounding.
Opener is the cackling, crackling, sneering and fearing ‘Finger’; a manic nightmarish derivation that evolves into a maelstrom und drang with the haunting ‘Why don’t you love meeee?’ retorted with ‘with her face down in the gutter’. Not your usual ‘girl meets boy’ (or girl etc) origin story.
‘Music of the spheres’ is in the vein of Edward Ka-Spel’s mysterious outré mainstream avant garde prog-rock auteurs The Legendary Pink Dots. An unsettling clash-crash of chaos and descending dissent. The disorienting din of ‘Elephantiasis’ changes tack midway whereupon the beguiling refrain ‘It’s ok … it’s so gay’ leads onto an electro-epileptic fit of pique.
‘Clammy Hands’ is a dubby trancehall of smoke and mirrors, nothing is as it seems, sweat free palms the stuff of daymares/nightdreams.
‘One trick pony’ is anything but. A lolloping bassline leading to a mental breakdown of heavy-thrashing turmoil. A strait(jacket) to hell. ‘The Spitter’ is like a Dr Moreau production of Wild Beasts and Nine Inch Nails: mutant music.
No your ears don’t deceive you, the cat hasn’t been run over. This synesthetic album will make you (in no particular combination) think (run), feel (anxious) smell (fear), touch (mortality) and see (the whites of your own eyes).