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Supersilent :: "8.5"From 8 (Rune Grammofon; 2007)
Supersilent have become semi-famous for their anti-image: their refusal to title their songs, to talk about their music -- either with each other or anyone else -- or to presenting their albums with a foreboding monochromatic sleeve. Taken along with their electro-acoustic program of warping organic instrumentation beyond recognition, it's tempting to label the band as mechanical or inhuman. This would be a grave mistake: Supersilent's dismissal of all associative baggage isn't technological fetishism, nor even, as far as I can tell, an attempt at some kind of philosophical purity. Call it a rebellion against the vague aestheticism of post-rock; the flip-side of Sigur Ros' ( ), on which the Icelandic group employed a minimalist design as a blank canvas for listeners to attach their own images (which they could actually do on the band's website). Supersilent aren't interested in your interpretations; their music is a monolithic totem pole, less an attempt at synaesthesia than a bold exploration of space and movement. Which isn't to say that their music can't be just as evocative, but the band doesn't trade in the usual stock of emotions that accompany most instrumental rock.
Consider "8.5," which triggers all kinds of contradictory responses: it's frightening but reconciling, alternately frantic and elating. It starts out with the most devastating vocal manipulations; they waver in and out, often sounding like a doomsday warning rendered unintelligible by radio interference (if not something even more menacing), then twist into a tortured-sounding something that still manages to bear a slightly greater resemblance to singing. It could be the darkest song this side of The Drift (2006), but then that delicate slide guitar kicks in, managing to sound unpredictable while only spinning around a handful of chords, with the drums breathlessly hitting the off-beat but remaining consistent, recalling the final few minutes of Talk Talk's "Ascension Day" or "New Grass." 8 is full of these moments which are alternately harsh and transcendent, to the point where it becomes difficult to tell which is which. Case in point: "8.5" ends with almost new age-y synth chords (in keeping with their elimination of extra-textual references, the band seems to not care which presets rank high with hipsters) which might sound light and relaxing elsewhere, but following Arve Henriksen's characteristically heartbreaking trumpet they seem to carry a sense of muffled tragedy and resignation, backed as they are by virtuosic but almost distant jazz drumming. Supersilent are impenetrable, but deliciously so; they borrow from the language of jazz and ambient while crafting from it something that describes the interplay of elation and despair better than either genre could ever hope to.
Danny Roca :: 24 October 2007 |
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