Vor-Stellen – Parallelograms
(Flying Nun)
Reviewed by Tim Gruar.
“Hello everyone,” screams the internet, gleefully. “And, welcome to our ‘German Word of the Day’. It’s “Vorstellen”. Which means – dah dah – “to introduce” and “to imagine”. “Today, kinder, we’ll learn how that makes sense and how to use it for both meanings.”
Ok. Maybe not. They are the newest recruits to the Flying Nun Records roster – sonic voyagers Brendan Moran, Stephen Reay (both of chaos noise-makers avoid!avoid) and Jared Johanson (he of the Subliminals).
‘Parallelograms’ is very much like Subliminals’ one and only imprint, a big wig-out slow jam. Claimed in their press as an ‘all-engulfing listening experience’.
If it sounds a bit like that band’s late, at long last, release ‘United State’, then that’s probably ok. Because in some ways this picks up where their other projects have left off, as the band work to expand on previously formed out-takes, crafting them into these expansive, open-ended sound objects, untethered from the usual, formulaic structures of pop, with stanzas, chorus, bridge and chorus. The radio friendly three minute angst effort, bleeding into a familiar fading outro. No. You probably can’t hum along to these in a car journey out to the beach. In fact I’d avoid listening while driving, you might go drowsy and veer off a cliff or something.
Opening with ‘Pollen Carrier’, a sludge-trudge march constructed almost entirely from a looping single snare drum riff. It’s bolstered by a staggering low-slung bass and sparse, reedy guitar interventions that are almost solo breakouts but never quite as grandiose. Lyrics appear like images in a blurry photo, you can’t quite make out what you are looking at or listening to.
The mood wakes up with the 12-minute lead single ‘Grønland’ (Greenland), peeling back the “layers of space and time” with this chugging ‘kosmische’ groove, embellished by ghostly vocals. Again, it’s lead by the snares. It wants to go somewhere, but, ultimately, is just running on the spot.
‘Voyager’ is even longer, clocking in at 16.02. Another slow one, and yes, like the boring bits of a journey, it’s long, monotonous, lacking in redeeming or memorable features but some how mesmerising. Like a car ride I had recently through a featureless hinterland. The soothing hum of the engine room (drums and bass) and a wash of non-threatening guitar noise created a feeling of drifting security that sent me to sleep, swaddled in warm, colourless ambience.
But then, half way through the track, this heavy blanket is removed, swapped for a lighter summer variant. Not too much change, perhaps a different pattern, but recognisable all the same. At this point I started thinking about the music of Talk Talk, especially ‘Life’s What You Make It’. Mainly because of the looping piano chords that have slipped under the cover of yet another wash of guitars.
The closer is ‘Folding of the Time’, driven by a floor tom this time. Another simple, repeated pattern. This time like a Pacific log drum rhythm. Underneath noodling single note guitars and yet more flooding distortions. Everything is a constant regeneration of the moment before. The only difference is this one is building to a crescendo, like a speeding car heading towards the inevitable brick wall. Yet the crash never really comes and you are left dissatisfied as the music fades away. No smoke hanging over the scene, no piles of twisted metal, no staggering bodies crawling out of the wreckage, nothing ringing in the ears.
There’s an obvious theme on all these songs – time, distance, and the pleasures of a pointless journey. It’s the soundtrack to a mid-80’s art film with long single shots of empty buildings and lonely cows standing in fields. It’s atmosphere not climate change.
This is no music to sing in the car, more to put on at the end of the night, with your feet up and a good book to read. Finish those chapters, little will distract you. Though you might want someone to wake you and remind you that snoring and drooling on the lounge room cushions is never a good look. Schlaf gut, Kinder.
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