stillsuit / map 71

Double header between Blue Tapes and x-ray records finds Brighton’s Map 71 and Oakland’s Stillsuit sharing tape space on a frankly must have limited cassette release. Last time out serving up something decidedly ominous and dare we say eclectically special in the guise of a rare appearance by Father Murphy the latest outing from the imprint that alerted all to the creative tour de force Katie Gately now concentrates the hearts and mind with a spot of ‘abstract punk’ which per the press release describes Stillsuit loosely as treble punksters blooded in the art of crafting needle taught jabs of frenetic 2 minute shocks who apparently where asked if they fancied doing a longer song – like a prog one – to which they walked away,  cobbled about returning when done with the 11 minute agit pop sortie ‘16’. Decidedly edgy ‘16’ seesaws precariously upon an axis that on one side sits no wave while t’other looms angular art pop at its most impish, spiked by spidery riffage Stillsuit have taken the hammer to the prog rock nudge and with a wilful disregard to structured verse / chorus / verse dynamics instead appearing happily to wallow in discordance, disharmony and derangement all the time dragging you by the hair roots to collide with the acute corners and preponderance of sonic cul de sacs, it really is most effecting and should you need a reference point then try imagining a gnawing nag nag nag mantra battered into existence by a serious freak Slits in a face-off with an acute un-playful Shaggs. Map 71 need no introduction in these pages, gracing the Foolproof Projects imprint on the odd occasion, the duo feature workaholic multi band member Andy Pyne (see Kellar, west hill blast quartet, the black neck of the common loon…..) and poet Lisa Jayne. One album and a limited single already under their collective belt and both utterly adored around these here parts, ‘laced’ finds them in darker brooding moods, this is bleak stuff, raw and open wounded, sparse – edgy – detached – there are elements of Pink Military grimly souring the grooves, Lisa Jayne’s spoken word narration icily coiling around Pyne’s minimalist percussive clangs and chants with a choking disquiet that in the deep recesses of my mind eye (and ear) had us with a want to seek out our copy of ‘I was dora suarez’.   

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