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.
-
Archives
- January 2020
- December 2019
- November 2019
- October 2019
- September 2019
- August 2019
- July 2019
- May 2019
- April 2019
- March 2019
- February 2019
- January 2019
- December 2018
- November 2018
- October 2018
- September 2018
- August 2018
- July 2018
- June 2018
- May 2018
- April 2018
- March 2018
- February 2018
- January 2018
- December 2017
- November 2017
- October 2017
- September 2017
- August 2017
- July 2017
- June 2017
- May 2017
- April 2017
- March 2017
- February 2017
- January 2017
- December 2016
- November 2016
- October 2016
- September 2016
- August 2016
- July 2016
- June 2016
- May 2016
- April 2016
- March 2016
- February 2016
- January 2016
- December 2015
- November 2015
- October 2015
- September 2015
- August 2015
- July 2015
- June 2015
- May 2015
- April 2015
- March 2015
- February 2015
- January 2015
- December 2014
- November 2014
- October 2014
- September 2014
- August 2014
- July 2014
- June 2014
- May 2014
- April 2014
- March 2014
- February 2014
- January 2014
- December 2013
- November 2013
- October 2013
- September 2013
- April 2013
- March 2013
- February 2013
-
Meta