poino

The urgency, the erratic surges, that sense of simmering agitation metered out by punctuating eye jabbing riffs, crooked stop start zig zag time signatures and that feeling that your one misjudged chord away from total collapse and chaos (’bird trick‘). Welcome to the head fried world of London based trio Poino’s ‘bon ick voyeur’ out via horse arm just now. Melding angular art gouged grooves with mathian post rocking alt grind, ’bon ick voyeur’ may well be the most wayward set you’ll have the pleasure of hearing outside of a platter emanating from the foolproof projects stable all year, delightfully fractured and unhinged and inscrutably schizoid, Poino don’t claim to have created a new sound – trace lines amid the grooves recall at given moments flashbacks to truman’s water, shellac, arm, polvo (in particular ‘burnt birthday‘), hey colossus and literally anything crawling out of the brew and gringo imprints, in fact edge a little closer and you’ll find their kindred spirits to be the birthday party (check out the frenetic and frantic damaged art blues brutality of the contortionist feral flame hot ‘lenod’ if you think we’ve gone a little too far in the back slapping admiration). Far from being one trick ponies shift a little along the grooves for ‘pinking’ which unless ears do deceive (and they don’t) snarls with a twisted forlorn beauty of some lost John Barry spy theme exhumed from the lost vaults and zapped into life by a gathering of Constellations all stars all headed up by primo twang overlords shadowy men on a shadowy planet. All said we here do admit to being mildly fond of the frankly wired to the teeth ’doom fist’ which aside being just totally mental is an exercise in stereophonic trepanning rarely heard done better here than in the early days of Trencher. Most surprising moment of the set comes with the parting ‘terpischordia’ a piano and strings ballad sombrely turned in a shadowy chamber noir trimming and etched in suspense and macabre that you’d rather more expect to hear on a Philippe Petit platter which for its stark dark majesty alone – think Stockhausen reshaping Satie – at the very least would cause palpitations aplenty and chin stroking delight from those much admiring and fondly missing those old Radio 3 ’mixing it’ broadcasts. All that without scarcely a mention of jazz, oh bugger. Chaotically crucial.

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