Recording review - Föllakzoid, III (2015)

Sink into hypnotic rhythms and dark echoes

^4.0/5.0

World music -- that vague catch-all label -- largely falls into two flavors, neither of which reflect too well on the Westerners who coined the term. The bulk of it is “delightfully exotic” or “strange but cool”, showcasing some culture’s musical heritage, but repackaged in easy to digest servings to appeal to the jaded palate. Worse than that are the half breed mutants that hover between appropriation and cargo-cult aspiration, sometimes with rock artists harnessing foreign musicians without understanding their cultural context, other times with those musicians trying with mild success to emulate Western pop. Even so, I’ll confess that I’ve enjoyed my share of all of these, sometimes with a frisson of guilt.

Föllakzoid’s sophomore album, III, neatly sidesteps this minefield by focusing on their creative vision and building rich, long-form trance excursions. The Chilean trio taps into a hypnotic flow that has served numerous traditions from Indian ragas and Sufi dervishes to Krautrock drives and dancehouse electronica. Their music may draw somewhat on South American rhythms, but those influences don’t stick out as much as the motorik percussion, Indian polyrhythms, trance psychedelia, and Goth rock moodiness. Why waste time pedantically analyzing the cultural referents or feeling hiply superior when you can surrender to the swirling syncopation and trippy echoes?

III is a full length album split into four tracks, but the songs seem to share thematic elements even as they change up their production. In particular, the first two tracks, “Electric” and “Earth” have a lot in common: each begins with syncopated beats built from echoed percussion, they build into trancy electronica, and they feature heavily reverbed vocals. But the two songs develop completely different moods. “Electric” latches on to a slinky bass groove that pushes into Ozric Tentacles territory. Electronic washes and a deep, pensive throb create a beautiful tension that complements the crystalline bite of guitar and gives a surreal edge to the faint vocals that sounds like distant PA announcements. The song wraps up with a sci-fi flavored interlude featuring robotic sound effects and shimmering static.

“Earth” rises from this sonic soundscape with a metallic percussion that develops into a deep tribal rhythm. The bass is strong here, too, but now it’s heavy and impassive, reminding me a bit of Joy Division. The effect is much darker than the first track, suggesting shadowy hallways where barely noticeable electronic grinding suggests alien threats lurking just out of sight. Despite that undercurrent of danger, there’s also a thoughtful element as the piece hypnotically wraps in on itself, occasionally running into dead ends and moving on while the echoes hang on a little bit.

The shortest piece, “Feuerzeug”, closes out the album with an intense nine minutes of pensive Krautrock that ambraces the Gothic sounds of Joy Division and Bauhaus. The main theme is thick with tension and has me expecting to hear Ian Curtis break in with the vocals for “Transmission”. Then some heavier flashes of guitar against the steady beat suggest Bauhaus’ “Terror Couple Kill Colonel”. At the same time, Föllakzoid aren’t aping those bands. They make their own statement by playing with the sonic palette to blend in harsher, low-fi tones that contrast against the softening echoes and electronic touches. They fill in a host of disjointed details that drift in and out before the song gradually deconstructs itself.

If III has a weakness, it’s one that many trance-oriented projects share: it’s too easy for a casual listener to dismiss the whole collection as repetitive and miss the nuances between the songs.“Feuerzeug” may stand as the best argument against that criticism, but I think that Föllakzoid could have varied the tempos a little more to create more differentiation. Ultimately, those are minor issues that won’t distract as you sink under the album’s spell. Best of all, it’s not “world music”; it’s just music, perfect for an early Spring bike ride or as a soul-refreshing barrier against workday monotony .

Recording review - Wymond Miles, Cut Yourself Free (2013)

Dark derivations fail to impress

Everybody knows that first impressions are important. With short attention spans, people are quick to categorize and move on. Sometimes, those kneejerk responses are spot-on and sometimes they miss the mark. Either way, there’s rarely a chance to reset expectations after that initial impact. On Cut Yourself Free, guitarist Wymond Miles goes out of his way to create the image of a dark, Goth-pop wallflower. He wraps himself in a worn shroud of reverb and emulates Robert Smith’s singing style. Maybe he’s intent on distinguishing his solo work from the cheerier garage rock he plays with the Fresh & Onlys, but he does himself a disservice by pigeonholing his sound.

The first three songs on Cut Yourself Free are not so much a love letter to the Cure as a sympathetic LiveJournal lamentation. Leading off with “The Ascension”, Miles teases us with alt rock guitar downstrokes wrapped in what will become the album’s ubiquitous haze of echo. As the cycle of chords becomes a repetitive loop, the extended introduction gets more interesting, incorporating keyboard swells and honed shards of guitar. This retro new wave vamp eventually gives way to the main song, a sparse tribute to the Cure featuring glum, hollow vocals. By the synthpop shimmer of the third track, Miles has established the album as an echo-laden miasma of emo brooding worthy of his Gothic inspirations.

That’s what makes “White Nights” such an unexpected pleasure. On the early tracks, the guitars strained to break free and explore more expansive reaches with enthusiastic jangle and expressiveness. Finally, they get their chance as Miles backslides to a mood more fitting to his work with the Fresh & Onlys. The sound is buoyed by the XTC pop and new wave backing. The vocals even transform from oppressive to thoughtful. The meandering melody in the fade out deserves more space than it gets, but it’s pleasant enough to get a disruption in the gloomy flow. The brief instrumental interlude that follows, “Bronze Patina”, very nearly recants those first tunes completely. Shimmering walls of heat-struck guitar drone hover like a nearby mirage, carefully framing a dulcet acoustic guitar. The bristling howl of chaos is cast against the rooted faith of sweetly simple finger picking, without resolution. Instead, a yin-yang balance prevails.

Cut Yourself Free doesn’t abandon its dark foundations at that point, but the second half breaks up the monochrome. “Anniversary Song” is packed with melodramatic suffering, but other songs have more to offer. “Vacant Eyes” clings to some Gothic shadows, but it gives free rein to a pensive psychedelia reminiscent of the Moody Blues. “Love Will Rise” is a bit stilted, but the tremolo guitar blends with the synth washes to add an intriguing retro feel. Introducing these richer sounds from the start would have improved the album’s appeal. Leading off with such a derivative sonic palette creates a momentum that wears out its welcome all too soon. Despite his talent on the guitar, Miles can’t overcome that first impression.

(This review first appeared on Spectrum Culture)

Recording review - My Gold Mask, Leave Me Midnight (2013)

Inky dark vocals and Gothic echoes

Creepy torment, dark shadows, and Gothic echoes fill My Gold Mask's debut album. Leave Me Midnight is full of songs that bind low-fi elements carefully layered with a retro production style marked by crisp, reverbed isolation. The band develops a sound like the master recordings were left in a haunted house to soak up the ambiance until even the more pop-oriented tracks take on a pensive quality. It's fitting that the songs are rooted in synth-pop, but the beats aren’t anchored to the dance floor. Lead singer, Gretta Rochelle has a richly expressive voice that invites comparisons to Siouxsie Sioux, with some of Amanda Palmer's modern theatricality. The counter-rhythms and jigsaw tight arrangements push well past any genre limitations, occasionally reveling in complexity without sabotaging intensity.

Unquestionably, though, the best song on the album is the simplest. “Without” opens with a staccato guitar that tips a hat to the Cure, while Rochelle's voice hovers between seductive and petulant.

Love, oh it’s taken me so long...
Love, oh it’s tearing me apart...
Love, I don’t even know what for...
I’m without you 

Her hopelessness is raw and honest; the spare musical accompaniment lets the words sit and ripple outwards. That first verse sets the hook, but the second verse reveals that this is a duet, with Jack Armondo repeating the lyrics. Unlike the unadorned female vocal, his lines eventually pick up a harmony part. The mantra-like repetition of the last line drives home the forced separation between the two sides; each of us is alone, wanting the same connection. Armondo's calm delivery is a nice contrast to Rochelle’s flash on the rest of the album. Somewhere between Dave Gahan (Depeche Mode) and Peter Murphy (Bauhaus), he grounds the song, supporting its powerful fatalism.

The rest of Leave Me Midnight measures up as the band tempers their retro synth-pop with an even older sound, rooted in the '60s. Songs like “Some Secrets” draw upon that era's experimental aesthetic, drenching low-fi precision in a thick coat of reverb. When the rhythm kicks in to transform the song, Rochelle's voice is inky pop perfection. As the intensity grows, it sounds more like My Gold Mask managed to record the reflected echoes of an idealized live version. Similarly old-school, “Burn Like The Sun” uses garage psych to set the scene for some kind of pagan rite. Rochelle's tone is a bit brighter than Siouxsie Sioux’s, but in moments like “Nightfalls” or the verses of “Lost In My Head”, her voice is resurrected. But it’s not a slavish imitation; it’s just a shared expressiveness. As “Song of Wound” offers its arty, Bauhaus vibe, her drawn out phrases and wordless singing raise that familiar vocal spectre to caper with the tribal drums. Leave Me Midnight is cloudy like absinthe and just as bittersweet.