Sometimes when you walk into a house, restaurant or bar, an atmospheric consort quickly settles on you like a comforting snowfall. Maybe it's the lighting, the smells from the kitchen, or the looks on a few new faces. Whatever it is, you feel immediately a part of whatever's happening and you want to keep it that way. Records, in my experience, are no different. The right sequence of elements, whether expected or not, can change the listening experience into something beyond sensory.
So I feel it necessary to mention that less than 15 seconds into the debut and solitary-outing of French duo the Anals, I was instantly at home. It happened with those bands creeping out of Monterrey, Mexico, too, and in much the same way. A few simple notes on the keyboard and the trust of hands and feet and I was sold. I've already played it three times this afternoon and I won't be sleepy for hours. Granted, after giving the Anals a listen you may decide that my "home sweet home" is a damp and unpleasantly eerie parking lot regularly frequented by undesirables. Hey, everyone needs somewhere to lay their head. There's something gleefully disaffected about the Anals' rhythmic synth punk, like they're lovingly relishing the aftermath of their destructive early-twenties. I'm still there, so I've been treating this as a biting satire of 20/20 hindsight; a way of looking back that I can look...forward...to. And if you're making punk records in the 21st century, isn't that what it oughta be about?
Send jer drool & confetti to Sweet Rot.
So I feel it necessary to mention that less than 15 seconds into the debut and solitary-outing of French duo the Anals, I was instantly at home. It happened with those bands creeping out of Monterrey, Mexico, too, and in much the same way. A few simple notes on the keyboard and the trust of hands and feet and I was sold. I've already played it three times this afternoon and I won't be sleepy for hours. Granted, after giving the Anals a listen you may decide that my "home sweet home" is a damp and unpleasantly eerie parking lot regularly frequented by undesirables. Hey, everyone needs somewhere to lay their head. There's something gleefully disaffected about the Anals' rhythmic synth punk, like they're lovingly relishing the aftermath of their destructive early-twenties. I'm still there, so I've been treating this as a biting satire of 20/20 hindsight; a way of looking back that I can look...forward...to. And if you're making punk records in the 21st century, isn't that what it oughta be about?
Send jer drool & confetti to Sweet Rot.
1 comment:
This is very nice. I'm going to sit in your "home" when I come across this record.
(Also, if you have Analytics - heh, get it? - track how many hits you get from my site, where I've placed a link to this site ... I'm interested to know how that count relates to my (east coast) bounce (-style) rate ...)
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