Tronics
Love Backed by Force LP
What’s Your Rupture? 2012 Reissue
Well, holla at me! This is an easier grip than the Figures
of Light comp I just talked up! If ya don’t know the Tronics yet, a cursory
sweep of the Hyped to Death Messthetics comps what seemed to occupy
bedrooms around the nation will take you to the starting line. Shockingly,
nobody wanted to admit they spun the first 3 volumes like some kinda iTunes
race. Shocking. I spose what most folks call the re-insurgence of crud-fi
is just kids round the same age coppin moves from old farts; everything from
Eat Skull to Sic Alps and back through Pheromoans. (They call it a revolution;
I’m finna call it puppy love.) Anyhoots, round about the time you get to Vol.
3, the Tronics cut “Shark Fucks” enters your life, riding Buddy Holly and
Tyrannosaurus Rex with the same fervor with which Steve Treatment rhythmically
nudged Paul McCartney’s pockmarked honeypot. Love Backed by Force, first
dropped in 81, might seem to add nary a wrinkle to the Tronics charm. But, I
swears, by the 6th day of the title cut churning on “rinse” in your head
with no complaints, such demands will seem positively rude. Just go with
it. You know the analogy: more, good thing, bad, not. The rest follow the
aforementioned template to wondrously burnt and frayed edges. It don’t get
wild like brats do today, it just is wild, even if it’s just sittin
there.
To be found where good things are overlooked.
Cursillistas
Observe Ember Weeks LP
L’Animaux Tryst 2012
Cursillistas’ last holler as a crew is the first I’ve heard.
Oughtn’t be a surprise to many who know ‘em, as they happen to traffic in a
sound-sense with which I seldom touch bumpers. We’re talking pretty,
soft-focus, post-Kranky Records ensemble work that may just be a set of
outtakes from the Hired Hand soundtrack garbled by the Space Needle.
“Howling Wind II,” which contains neither howling nor wind nor II, sat just
fine beside me, with its hazy memory of a hazy retelling of a record on Flying
Fish—though it still baffles me hearin’ kids crib moves from New Hampshire
six-string alcoholics. It’s also a fine showcase for the muffled, impromptu
production. Elsewhere, the Silver Mt. Zion moves get more naked (see “Frontier
Gothic;” though “Bona Dea,” is straight JOMF white boy stakeout) and the
singing and the jamming and the plodding and oi I’m getting sleepy. How did I wind up with this record?! Sounds
better loud, but I have tinnitus, so that goes double for just about
everything.
Ok, I’ll admit it: a lazy review for a last departure. Maybe
their barista careers are finally panning out? A hand-numbered edition of
214.7, packaged in a sleeve made out of dead skin lace work from the nursing
home where all their grandmas live.
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