Ons Klyntji magazine : music reviews

Print mag "Ons klyntji" operates from the Cape Town underground and covers unindentured creativity. It is published biannunally in three languages (two of which are local) with no corporate claims to fame. Or fortune.

The following reviews on of local independent music releases will accompany the winter/spring 007 edition:



Deisel Whores
The Fear
(2004)

If Rock ‘n Roll is dead, the Whores are its second coming. And if rambunctious rhythm and unedited disclosure are the devil’s work, The Fear is proof that they work for the man.

Don’t listen to it if you want to feel sorry for yourself; Jaxon tried that and it made him a rock star. The words are strange and sad, the sound is strong; it’s a confession and a catharsis an album long. This pacey and priceless collection of original angst and cynical wit cut from the finest pow(d)ers of musical persuasion boasts grizzly guitars and big drums that are more at home with the divinely dispossessed of the real music scene than the overly distressed noise that MORs have ODed on.

The Whores put the cunt into Country and they’re good at it. It’s hard then soft and wet yet dry. Why? Every belting, rockabilly track is steeped in irony and sarcastic intelligence. They lay right into you without quite giving over, and they don’t kiss it better. (Kinda like their namesakes.) Songs swim and crash between a touchy calm and furtive build-ups but never let up. Vocals ooze an autumnal anger perfectly suited to the sticky work of anticlimax – distinct, defined, and difficult to ignore against the warped warmth of the electric guitar. Funky mid riffs are exposed, then fleshed out with well-spaced whoops and screams. The mixed-up minimalism borders on excellence in this edgy mix of finely produced Rough & Tumble. It’s carefully crafted and recklessly crafty, with wise, weird lyrics that deserve a spotlight.

The tribute track takes the Charlie out of anyone and everyone (including the one and only aural auteur himself), with thoughts like: “all the girls / after school/ as a rule / they do cocaine. // All the boys / in a line / doing fine / they do cocaine…/ I wanna try some so that I . will . be . POPular”. The Sweater Song successfully takes the piss out of loneliness with lines like “I’m scared of dyeing alone” but remains defiantly poignant. “Starfucker” defines the album’s adroit objections to everything inane, upending naïve aspirations to stardom (or something like it) with the real benefits of fame and (lost) fortune. It’s not I wanna be a star, but, “I wanna be a star fucker, just like you.” You have to laugh at how they cashed in on caustic wit with “starsucker” - the family-friendly radio version which takes the sense out of censor but still gets past it.

But why should you let their hairy, whorey muzzles nuzzle into your ears? I think the question is more, why not? This is one hell of an album - the recording is world class, the music is rock heavy, the wit is wired and the shit is original. Who else can sing about contemporary cultures in a way that makes incest seem soft? Something this bad has got to be good. Lick it.

Words: Jezebel


review : The Sleepers

The Sleepers
Still
2005

breaking fingers to touch you. Not so innocent.

The Sleepers are demigods of dark rock; their music, a hard and holy meld of darkness and light There’s just enough rage, remorse, edge and otherness in it to access a greater range of emotions than the regular Rock band or Goth-Punk outfit does.

While recorded music is never as potent or crystal clear as live performance, this 5-track EP exposes enough of their dark powers to inspire seeing them in the flesh. And, if I’m splitting hairs, it must be said that their complex compositions outshine indie production challenges to make a collector’s item that sounds as good as it looks.

Melody that moans from the gentle fingering on the guitars can suddenly pull off its mask and scream sweetly and strangely in a cyclone of full, beautiful sound. It’s tempered or tautened by sienna vocals that tactfully antagonise the guitar conspiracy by remixing awkwardness and passion to stand out against a landscape of finely fused sounds. Separate or unified, the instruments frequently release floods of feeling that tear through to make room for stillness. “To Stray” is beautiful. “Phoenix” is dangerous. “The Tyrant” is tragic. Their combined efforts suggest a refined and unforgiving understanding of music and emotion that offers a distinct authority to this cathartic hexagram of dark hymns.

This band is going to grow, and one day this EP will be the only way for me to say, “I Told You So”. They started with something special. They surpass it. They will redefine it.

Words: Jezebel


Taxi Violence
Untie Yourself
2006

Start up your engines. Rev. Roar. Ride. If you can keep up and coast along with Taxi, you’re Waking Up.

Labels are libels and these four boys are having none of it. Give their moerse debut album a listen and you’ll hear what I mean : they’ve cut trad, blues and folk rock with alternative country into a clean-dirty mix that’ll break you and bless you with righteous rage and raw revelation. It’s shamelessly old school - they rock, they roll; they don’t give a damn but they got soul. They’re more sublime than sex and less sane than a friend of Valkenburg. It’s tight, but there’s room for you, if you’ve got the guts to be disarmed by a grinding bitch of a guitar, gnashing drums, seamless bass and vocals textured with eros.

The album’s sprinkled with wisdom and wildness; good words do good work and wicked ones go deeper. It’s not surprise that they sing about lust, love and livin’ it large as emotion and power escalate and integrate effortlessly. But by bending the cliché out of maxims they deconstruct the ordinary and redress it with their own angle. Met ander worde, if “love is gonna kill you all before you die” you’d better Rock Out.

The recording is tailored and tight, which suggests their full sound is a lot tamer than it actually is live. But, then, it is their first time, so better safe than stupid.

Dry your eyes. Untie Yourself. Hell yeah.

Words: Jezebel


Band: Mercurial
EP: 6

The debut EP takes a stab at the heart and lances the universal from pinnacles of pain and passion.

No apologies to the wannabes, we need more prodigies like this. Singer/songwriter Joshua Grierson is a fledgling with a sage voice and an insistent heart whose talents garner growing respect on Cape Town’s live, indie music scene. Numbers are not important to Josh - his strumming and picking makes six steel strings sound like sixteen; and his voice won’t reveal his age, either. Neither will I, seeing as it’s the music that counts. If your soul cries when you listen to Mercurial, it’s his fault.

Think of Bruce and Bob and Buckley bowled over by a burst heart. “6” swoons and swells. It’s bloody with a lot of soul. Joshua’s voice is a dream shaken awake, an angel fallen and feeling it: it’s full and fine and fearless. Naked, it covers a mountain range of emotions effortlessly, and simultaneously strips emotion of its transience. Armed with a guitar, melody and emotion are transformed into raw musical expression empowered by honesty, struggle, and a complete trust in a tricky mistress. It’s a hymn and a ballad and a battle ground with sudden thunderstorms that give emo the finger.

Though the songs embody a completeness that defies the missing pieces they speak of, there are times when the virgin EP’s raw emotion begs a full band to take the compositions to where they deserve to be. Which is in a full album.


Words: Jezebel




Humanizer
Her Heart Growls

A third in the superhero “Eye Am Hear” series (2006), multimedia magician Paul Ressel has done it again. His organic Electronica reaches deep into the psyche, pulls out the plugs, and plants things that you only realise have seeded once you’ve slept on it. A bit like the princess and the pea, really. Only, no bruises.

It’s ostensibly sensible, sensual Electronica, splicing bits of D&B, dub, and obscure atmospheric samples into a narrative that fits nicely between Nintendo and Narnia. Except… he’s up to a bit more than that. A trained musician turned bedroom DJ, Humanizer has formed a veritable cult around his creativity through the singularly intelligent conceptualisation of mixing experiential media and amazing compositions. Performances are totally wired : a crazy rig of little machines makes big, beautiful noise. While you dance, you can watch imagery dancing on the walls – he’s knit the grit of underground life with the overtones of the everyday. Her Heart Growls is another snap at it. And you can take it home on disc or drive.

Replete with the beatific balance of his gentle touch and bad bass, it winds its way through a (mostly) wordless tale of how to listen to your inner rhythms. Trills and glitches, hums and horns, pics, videos, links and lots more: it’s all there, a vivid landscape of daylife and nightmind, good for your ears, better for your brain, and best heard live and loud. And, by the way, you can hear Her Heart Growls in your sleep.

Words: Jezebel