New York Music Daily

Global Music With a New York Edge

Category: indie rock

Haunting Reverbtoned Psychedelia From Galanos

“Loneliest of men at the bottom of the world,” Galanos’ Netochka Nezvanova and Gregory D. Jaw intone, low and hushed over his lingering, reverb-iced guitar, building to a stomping, echoing buzzsaw attack on the opening track of their debut album Deceiver Receiver. It’s streaming at Bandcamp and it’s today’s luscious installment in this month’s series of Halloweenish daily treats for you.

Let’s cut to the chase: this is one of the best albums of the year. There’s a gutter blues influence, some Thee Oh Sees dark garage-psych and some Black Angels ambience here as well, but they evoke more menace than either of those groups. With the guy/girl vocals, they’re sort of the X of dark 21st century rock.

Nezvanova’s voice rises calm and elegaic over a catchy clangrock melody anchored by Joe Puglsey’s fuzz bass in the second track, Padre Song, a poison underground spring of a guitar solo at the center. Flashbomb mashes up a hailstorm of noisy PiL reverb over steady new wave bass and John Steele’s Atrocity Exhiibition drums beneath Jaw’s alienated beat-poet recitation.

“Recognize it’s transitory, life is fleeting,” Nezvanova intones as Mariana Trench vamps along, a Lynchian roadhouse boogie. Eerie Syd Barrett chords ring over carpetbombing reverb-tank pings and echoes in the brief instrumental dirge Letters From Home. Then the band pick it up again with Stunner, a mashup of growling new wave and chimey surf rock, and do the same with Mr. Friend, but with more of a minimalist Joy Division feel.

The album’s catchiest track, Dead Leaves has an ominous retro Laurel Canyon psych feel, like the Allah-La’s with the amps turned up all the way. Bleak, stygian atmospherics punctuated by the occasional ghost of a surf riff filter through the final cut, Feel Good, the album’s druggiest, most macabre track. Dare you to make this the last thing you listen to tonight.

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An Obscure, Darkly Tasty Treat by the Sandwitches

Today’s Halloween album is Our Toast, by Lynchian San Francisco lo-fi harmony rock trio the Sandwitches. Grace Cooper, Heidi Alexander and Roxanne Young put this up on Bandcamp in 2015 – after an intriguing series of ep’s and singles, it it looks like the band have been on ice pretty much ever since, probably consequence of less-than-optimal branding .

But it’s a great late-night album, suitable for any Halloween playlist you may be working on. Rusty Miller’s haphazardly jaunty western saloon-tuned piano propels the opening waltz, Sunny Side. With its casket girl harmonies, it’s got to be the saddest happy song ever written.

The Sandwitches may not have had a knack for band names, but they’re very good with song titles. The slow, tentative reverb-guitar intro to Play It Again Dick doesn’t offer the slightest hint of the slowly swaying dirge that it morphs into, vintage C&W through a twisted garage-psych prism, Des Roar with a woman out front.

Sleeping Practice – something we all ought to do more often, right? – follows the same pattern but even more morosely. with a series of playful false endings. The album’s most epic track, Dead Prudence has a slow, purposefully swaying. hazy pastoral Pink Floyd feel, with hints of oldschool soul and Cat Power, Nicolas Russo’s lingering piano channeling Rick Wright.

The group go back to waltz time for Miggy, the womens’ voices rising to the rafters for a plaintive, almost devotional atmosphere over the guitars’ steady sway and jangle. Even the vocal la-la’s, a melody that hints at a soca lilt and an unexpectedly starry dreampop outro can’t raise  Island Jam from its watery grave. Personal Hell comes together haphazardly and then swings along uneasily, James Finch Jr,’s bass punching through the torrents of jangle and clang.

Wickerman Mambo doesn’t have a trace of a latin feel:  the most energetic track here, it’s shambling folk-rock as the Jesus & Mary Chain would have done it, with a coy reference to a famous Tarantino film theme. The album comes full circle with another melancholy piano waltz, Nothing But Love. Throughout these songs, the lyrics are seldom distinct: bits and pieces float to the surface, tinged with regret, longing and a relentlessly downcast ambience.

The Long-Awaited New Dream Syndicate Album: Best Rock Record of 2017?

Steve Wynn is probably the greatest rock songwriter of all time. In terms of sheer output, tunefulness and consistently brilliant lyrical vision, he left Dylan and the Stones in the dust in a previous century. Since then, literally hundreds of songs later, he hasn’t let up. His latest and arguably most ambitious project has been to release a new album with his legendary, recently reunited 80s band the Dream Syndicate. Long story short: their dark, epic, surprisingly diverse new record How Did I Find Myself Here – streaming at youtube – could be the best album of 2017. Find out when this year’s best-of page goes live here in December!

[If you know the backstory, skip down a couple of paragraphs to find out what new album sounds like] Back in the 80s, when half the world was bopping to synths, a bunch of guys – most of them in northern California – created a savage new sound equally informed by psychedelia, punk and Americana. The critics of the day, doofuses that they were, dubbed it “paisley underground.” In reality, it didn’t have anything to do with paisley, the musicians were hardly what you’d call hippies, and they weren’t exactly underground either. In the 80s, as Reagan-era deregulation created a tsunami of media mergers and a resulting tidal wave of radio blandification, the college airwaves became what Spotify is now: the place kids go to find out about new bands.

The Dream Syndicate ruled college radio, and were frequent tourmates with the era’s biggest college radio act, REM. Even without the new album or recent reunion tours, the Dream Syndicate’s place in history would be secure. It’s safe to say that without Wynn’s signature blend of dueling guitars, pyrotechnic jams, gallows humor and tersely literate, brooding lyricism, there probably wouldn’t be any such thing as Yo La Tengo, and Sonic Youth would have been just another CBGB hardcore matinee band.

That’s a mighty heavy legacy to carry into the studio, but Wynn and the group pick up like they never left off.  If the Dream Syndicate hadn’t broken up in 1989, would they have embraced dreampop, and spacerock, and the far reaches of psychedelia that they do here? We’ll never know. What is certain is that the band are just as feral, yet focused as they were thirty years ago. The lineup changed in the 80s, and it has again: taking the place of the band’s last lead guitarist, the purist, bluesy Paul B. Cutler, is Wynn’s incendiary Miracle 3 bandmate and sparring partner Jason Victor. Behind the guitars, bassist Mark Walton and drummer Dennis Duck provide the sturdy support that music of this magnitude requires. If there’s anything to distinguish a Dream Syndicate album from a solo Wynn effort, it’s that this rhythm section’s backbeat drive empowers these epics to reach their destination. 

The first track, Filter Me Through You refines the dreampop influence that Wynn first touched on in his 2010 Northern Aggression album, but with the angst and guitar push-pull of the Miracle 3. It’s Wynn’s signature post-Velvets riffage through a glass, darkly, with an elegaic edge, “So that you can’t miss me when I’m gone,” as he puts it.

With its vast, swirling reverb-guitar atmospherics, Glide moves further into spacerock: an unrepentant hedonist’s anthem, it could be the great lost track on a Church record from the late 80s, Wynn and Victor subtly swapping good-cop and bad-cop roles. Out of My Head blends the skull-splitting twin-guitar assault of the band’s iconic 1981 debut The Days of Wine and Roses into an acidically whirling vortex over a steady, tense pulse: it’s hard to tell whose guitar is whose.

Wynn loves the occasional wry reference to his back catalog: Walton’s bass lick that opens 80 West is a prime example. This is one of those fantastically allusive film noir narratives that Wynn writes so well: even as his voice rises to a scream on the chorus, it’s not clear exactly what kind of horrible thing the driver in this desperate high-speed scenario did when he finally snapped. “The only thing that scares me more than getting caught is to stop and think about the live I’ve got,” Wynn’s frantic protagonist explains.

Like Mary is a classic Wynn character study: lyrically, it’s the album’s most harrowing track, a catchy, tensely muted, grim portrait a woman who may be a child killer…or just an Oxycontin casualty. “In her dreams there were people watching as they lowered her into the ground,” Wynn intones, ‘In her dreams she was beautiful, lying on the floor.”

Wynn and Victor slash at each other through gritty tube amp distortion, searing upper-register wails and distorted roar as The Circle motors along: it’s the closest thing to The Days of Wine and Roses here. The biggest surprise is the title track, eleven echoey, enveloping minutes of psychedelic noir funk that rises to a searing, distortion-and-feedback-infused sway. With its latin soul allusions and eerily starlit Rhodes piano, it’s sort of the band’s Can’t You Hear Me Knocking. Original Dream Syndicate bassist Kendra Smith makes a welcome vocal cameo in the hypnotic and unexpectedly upbeat closing cut, a droning, pulsing, Indian-inflected psych-rock tone poem of sorts. 

The Dream Syndicate are currently on tour in Europe – where they are huge again – and return to New York for a stop at Bowery Ballroom on December 2. The equally legendary Richard Lloyd of Television opens the night at 9; general admission is $25, and be aware that this might sell out.

Artsy Afrobeat-Inflected Tunesmithing and a City Winery Show from Jenn Wasner

Jenn Wasner is an anomaly in the indie rock world: a fluent, imaginative guitarist who uses just about every sound available to her and writes smart, pensive, lyrical songs. She’s bringing her band Wye Oak to a rare Manhattan gig tomorrow night, Oct 6 at City Winery. If you can get to Manhattan, you can also get home afterward since the show is early – 8 PM – and you won’t have to worry about the train leaving you at some random outpost in the remote fringes of Bushwick. And you can get in for twenty bucks at the door.

Wasner also has an intriguing side project, Flock of Dimes, whose debut album is streaming at Bandcamp. The songs blend icy, crisply produced ABC-style 80s art-pop with a stainless-topped, airconditioned 90s lounge feel over Afrobeat-inflected rhythms. Wasner likes dancing vocal melodies and tricky tempos which percolate throughout pretty much every song here.

Wasner’s lingering guitar resonates over a soukous-ish triplet beat on the opening track, Birthplace; “My love is not an object,” she asserts, then dancing, synthesized strings kick in. The Joke is a powerpop gem as the Talking Heads might have played it, with blippy synth and surrealistically echoing faux-Leslie speaker guitars: the steel solo that the song fades out on is anunexpected treat and over too soon.

Everything Is Happening Today pairs atmospheric verse against kinetic, metrically tricky chorus.  Likewise, Semaphore shifts from uneasy resonance to subtly crescendoing dancefloor-beat angst on the chorus, “Too far gone for a sempahore.”

The danciest and techiest track is Ida Glow. which could be Missing Persons or Garbage without the sexpot pose. Wasner goes back toward Remain in Light-era Talking Heads with Flight, an allusive, lushly textured account of betrayal.

With its watery layers of chorus-box guitar and similarly disembodied vocals, Apparition could be late-period Siouxsie without the microtones…and then it goes in the direction of the Fixx or Tears for Fears. Spiraling, Spanish-tinged guitars punctuate the gorgeous Given/Electric Life, which could be Linda Draper with slicker production: “I’m not in the ways of counting days, distract myself,” Wasner insists.

“We seem to be awake, but we are dreaming,” shse intones enigmatically at the end of Minor Justice, a return to icy, blippy Afrobeat-pop. “I couldn’t free you, I couldn’t free myself,” she laments in You, the Vatican – #bestsongtitleever, huh? The album ends with,…To Have No Answer, which sounds like Bjork at her trippiest and most atmospheric. Throughout the album, Wasner plays all the guitars and keys as well: she obviously put a lot of time and effort into this. It’s like an artichoke, one layer after another to unfold. If the album had come out thirty years ago, every graying Gen-Xer would still have the cd somewhere – and that’s a compliment.

The Enigmatic, Dynamic, Hard-Hitting Desert Foxx Invades the West Village

Desert Foxx don’t seem to have anything to do with Nazi generals, and there’s nobody in the band named Rommel. If you have to squeeze the trio into a category, postrock would work. Film music, ambient soundscaping, jazz improvisation and deep noir also factor into bassist/bandleader Mike DeiCont’s compositions. Their intriguing new ep Kill Together is streaming at Bandcamp, and they have a gig on Oct 4 at 6 PM at Cornelia Street Cafe with special guest multi-reedman Levon Henry. It’s a great deal: cover is ten bucks and includes a drink!

The album is a darkly cinematic triptych. The first track, For Giants opens with a mysterious temple-gong ambience from drummer Alex Kirkpatrick that rises to a hailstorm of cymbals, then there’s a sudden explosion of guitar squall from Louis Cohen over a slow, bludgeoning beat: Brandon Seabrook in slow-mo and Mick Barr come to mind.

Bring Us Home begins just as slowly but at the other end of the telescope, deep-sky tremolo guitar and Kirkpatrick’s tinkling piano building a rich, ominously melancholy, Lynchian ambience – until Cohen hits his distortion pedal and the wrath kicks in again. From there they go back to closing time at Laura Palmer’s favorite Twin Peaks corner drugstore, then firebomb the joint.

The final cut is Where We Burn the Bodies, with its spare, slow, stately bass chords, distant guitar and drum flickers amid the smoke off the battlefield. If an album is supposed to leave you wanting more, this one earns a perfect score. Has any band this potentially explosive ever played the Cornelia? Doubtful. Go on the fourth, have a free drink and find out for yourself.

Castle Black Bring Their Towering, Magnificently Dark Roar to Arlene’s This Saturday Night

If you run a music blog, it’s especially validating to watch an artist or an act deliver on the promise of their early days.  A couple of years ago, power trio Castle Black weren’t all that tight, and they were still getting the hang of their instruments. But it was obvious they had something that most rock acts in this city don’t have: fearlessness. For one, they don’t fall back on all the lazy indie rock guitar cliches – the moveable chords, the open chords, the pilfered New Order and Cure licks – that all the richkid Bushwick bands use. Do Castle Black even know what a cliche is? OK, last Friday night at the Well, there were a couple of choruses during the band’s blistering, careeningly triumphant release show there for their latest short album Trapped Under All You Know that were pretty Ramonsey. But all punk bands do that.

Otherwise, it was impossible to tell was coming next, except that it was bound to be loud and hard and intense – and catchy. At the release show at Matchless this past winter for their video Dark Light, guitarist Leigh Celent was starting to really flex her chops as the savage lead player she’s always wanted to be. This time out, she was that person – and bassist Lisa Low is flexing too, with a lot of riffs instead of just a booming low resonance. Drummer Matt Bronner, who was the best musician in the band when they first started, now finds himself propelling one of the most powerful and interesting bands in town.

Celent is really cutting loose on the mic now too. She finally unleashed that wounded wail in all its vengeful glory in the night’s best song, in fact one of the year’s best songs, Broken Bright Star, through all sorts of permutations. finally bringing it full circle to the haggard, elegaic blown-tube opening riff. Watching as the band built steam from from there, through the bitterly anthemic Sabotage, the serpentine, jaggedly noisy Dark Light and then Next Thing, echoing 70s Patti Smith, was just as much fun.

A new number, Man on a Train followed an unpredictable path of doomed late-night imagery. Low’s suspenseful epic-Buzzcocks rumble as Rise slowly got underway gave Celent a long launching pad to burn out of. They ended the show with some of their catchiest numbers: Blind Curtain, which sounded like powerpop Blondie on steroids; Seeing in Blue, the new album’s opening track, smoldering with Fender Twin amp roar and machete postpunk riffage; and the sardonically funny classic punk encore, One Track Mind. Castle Black will probably do a lot of this at their next Manhattan gig this Saturday night, September 2 at 10 PM at Arlene’s. Cover is $10.

Ferocious Power Trio Castle Black Put Out One of 2017’s Best Short Albums

In an era when gentrification, the demise of one venue after another and subway closures all down the line at night have landed one crushing blow after another on the New York music scene, Castle Black’s rise to become one of this city’s best bands is as heartwarming as it is improbable. A couple of years ago, they were playing the usual cruddy circuit of bottom-tier venues that most new bands never gain enough traction to leave. Since then, Castle Black have put out a succession of ep’s, each one better than the other and emerged as a relentlessly touring powerhouse.

Armed with a couple of vintage Fenders, guitarist/frontwoman Leigh Celent has grown into a powerful and distinctive player equally at home with noise and melody. Bassist Lisa Low anchors the music with a looming ominousness while drummer Matt Bronner ranges from rapidfire four-on-the-floor punk to doomy metal to the occasional departure into unorthodox meters, holding the beast to the rails. The band’s latest ep, Trapped Under All You Know is streaming at youtube. They’re playing the release show on August 25 at 10 PM at the Well in Bushwick – they’re definitely loud enough to drown out any of the other bands rehearsing in the upstairs rooms there.

The album’s first track, Seeing in Blue kicks off with Bronner’s boomy tom-tom rolls, Celent building an angst-fueled nocturnal scenario with her guitar and her vocals. It’s part Avengers roar and part enigmatic late-period Bush Tetras, with a little Cramps menace. And it’s as catchy as all those references

Broken Bright Star is one of the half-dozen best songs of 2017, hands down. The catchy, doomy opening guitar riff brings to mind the Vice Squad classic Last Rockers, rising to a richly jangly mesh of guitar multitracks on the chorus. The point where the verse suddenly dips down to just Celent’s vocals, and then explodes with a wrathful guitar chord, will give you goosebumps.

Blind Curtain is just as anthemic and catchy: imagine a two-guitar version of Blondie covering mid-80s Husker Du. The album stays in that relentlessly troubled zone with the distantly Joy Division-inflected last cut, Rise, Celent’s roaring, reverbtoned guitar shards flickering through the “shadows as they rise, again and again again.”  Brief as this is,  you’ll see this album on the best of 2017 page here in December if we’re still all here.

Algiers’ Enigmatic New Album Looks at Current Day Perils Through a Glass, Darkly

Algiers are one of the world’s most individualistic, relevant bands. Their 2014 debut album was a grim, confrontational mashup of oldschool soul, new wave and postrock, with a fiery populist, anti-racist sensibility. Their latest release, The Underside of Power – streaming at Spotify – is more Sandinista than London Calling . It’s a jaggedly interconnected suits that owes as much to the 80s film scores of Brad Fiedel and RZA’s lavish 90s Wu-Tang Clan sample collages than it does to rock or soul music. Informed by the Black Lives Matter movement, hip-hop, oldschool gospel and Albert Camus, it demands repeated listenings. Like Joe Strummer, frontman Franklin James Fisher is a fiery vocalist but often obscured in the mix to the point where the repeat button is required. But it’s worth the effort. 

Fisher’s fervent gospel-influenced vocals rise over a trip-hop beat and Lee Tesche’s war videogame synth on the opaquely defiant opening track, Walk Like a Panther: Rev. Sekou meets Portishead. With its watery Siouxsie guitar, loopy backdrop and dark cinematic cloudbanks, Cry of the Martyrs gives Fisher a launching pad for fire-and-brimstone imagery with current-day resonance. The equally catchy title track, a hit in camo disguise, is dark Four Tops Motown through  prism of postrock: “t’s just a question of time before we fall fall down,” is the mantra.

Death Match blends Unknown Pleasures Joy Division with Depeche Mode darkwave, building an allusively apocalyptic scenario. With its toxic post-battle ambienceA Murmur a Sigh  echoes that gloom.

Ryan Mahan’s austerelly waltzing piano in Mme. Rieux – a reference to a minor character in Camus’ novel The Plague – adds Botanica plaintiveness to its towering Pink Floyd grandeur. A mashup of dark gospel and trip-hop, Cleveland is a fierce yet enigmatic anti-police violence anthem :

In Jackson Mississippi they don’t have to hide…
We’re coming back…
The hand that finds you behind and ties the the thirteen loops…

The question is who’s making the comeback here, the Klan, or the people? The answer is far from clear.

With its brisk motorik rhythm,  Animals is Wire crossed with the Bomb Squad  The band follows that with the slow, ominously atmospheric  instrumental Plague Years and then the broodingly crescendoing A Hymn For an Average Man, its horror movie piano loops setting the stage for mighty Floyd guitar crunch.

The echoey soundscape Bury Me Standing segues into the final cut, The Cycle the Spiral Time to Go Down Slowly, a pulsing noir soul song awash in sweeping war movie sonics. Spend some time with this album in the dark and then figure out where we’re going to go from here. 

An Allusively Intense, Psychedelic New Album by Larkin Grimm

Multi-instrumentalist/songwriter Larkin Grimm gets pigeonholed as freak-folk, probably because her music is mostly acoustic But that’s a box she doesn’t fit into. She can wail to match Yoko at her most assaultive if she wants, but she’s just as likely to soar gently over an artsy, psychedelic backdrop. Her latest album Chasing an Illusion is streaming at Bandcamp. She’s playing Sunnyvale at 8 PM tomorrow night, June 8; cover is $15. Renata Zeiguer’s trippy, creepy Prozac rock project Cantina opens the night at 7. Grimm is also at Planeta, 295 E 8th St. on June 16, time and cover TBA.

Grimm recorded the album with what sounds like a vast cast of performers  – neither her site nor her Bandcamp page lists them – at Martin Bisi’s legendary Gowanus basement space, BC Studios. The natural reverb on the recording – which was done live to max out the sonics – is subtle yet vividly alive. Grimm, who typically wears her cards close to the vest, explains the album as being influenced by Ornette Coleman, and a pivotal moment when she ran into a number of her major influences, Ravi Coltrane and Pharaoh Sanders among them, at Coleman’s funeral.

There’s a distinct Indian influence throughout the album’s eight often epic tracks. The opener, Ah Love is Oceanic Pleasure is a lush, rubato raga-rock soundscape of sorts, awash in austere strings, various plucked instruments and even a sax fluttering in the backdrop, high in the clouds. “You have to choose your freedom,” is the refrain.

Grimm’s harp flickers and ripples over a bittersweetly Lynchian Orbison-pop vamp throughout Beautifully Alone, which rises to a teeth-clenched midtown Manhattan scenario.. “I wanna be alone dangerously alone, beautifully alone,” she asserts.

Another raga-rock piece, Fear Transforms into Love (Journey in Turiya…) tingles with harp glissandos; true to the title, it reaches majestic, triumphant peak. I Don’t Believe You has a similar sweep with echoes of 80s dreampop, like the Cocteau Twins but more organic. “I wish that you would die, so that I could play outside,” Grimm laments. Yikes!

On the Floor contrasts Grimm’s balmy vocals with a simple, gritty electric guitar and violin arrangement. Tom Van Buskirk’s elegant drums provide a hypnotically symphonic sway for A Perfect World, a lush return to acoustic dreampop. Then Grimm goes in an unexpected 90s trip-hop direction with Keeping You Alive: her blithe understatement belies her…um…grim exasperation. The album winds up with the title track, a rustic blues amped with trumpet sailing over burning distorted guitar. “I feel dead inside,” Grimm rails as it gets underway and finally reaches an anguished peak. For those who wish that Nico had made Chelsea Girl with Arthur Lee instead, this is for you.

Gold Dime Release Their Dark, Haphazardly Trippy New Album at Alphaville Tonight

Gold Dime’s new album Nerves – streaming at Bandcamp  personifies the best side of indie rock coming out of Brooklyn these days. Nothing effete or twee or mannered about their careening, noisy assault. Frontwoman/multi-instrumentalist Andrya Ambro (half of messy, well-known avant rock duo Talk Normal) doesn’t have Siouxsie Sioux’s command of microtones, or menace for that matter, but she still could pass for a Banshee, in the early days of that band, at least. Gold Dime are playing the album release show for their new one at Alphaville tonight, June 3 at around 11. Explosive postrock/spacerock guitar loopscaper Ben Greenberg, AKA Hubble opens the show at 10; cover is $10.  Then on June 16 Gold Dime are at C’Mon Everybody at 9 for the same price..

The new album’s opening epic, Easy is a galloping, noisy raga-rock jam,, bouncy bass holding it together hypnotically as guitarist Lazar Bozic’s spacerock chords devolve into shards of feedback and reverb-tank pings – and then they pull the monster back on the rails. The mantra “You can’t tell me nothing” becomes a simple, emphatic “Leave me alone,” as Parior Walls‘ Kate Mohanty’s alto sax enters the mix, whirling and then sputtering.

The amped-up version of spoken word artist Anne Clark’s All We Have to Be Thankful For growls along with echoes of Syd Barrett, vintage Jesus & Mary Chain and Teenage Jesus & the Jerks, Ambro’s sarcastically deadpan vocal over wry faux-doo-wop and sheets of spacerock reverb guitar.

The minimalistic 4 Hours sounds more like the Creatures than Siouxsie, with spare alto sax over a simple, pounding drum riff until the guitars ooze and then march in. “You don’t own me, a lot of you don’t know me…but you cut me,” Ambro intones as the firestorm rises behind her.

Shut Up sounds like an Unknown Pleasures-era Joy Division outtake with a woman out front, spiced with vintage drum machine and light industrial percussion. Ambro opens Quota  – as in “I’m not here to fill your quota” – over a trancey digeridoo loop; the reverie punctured by eerie  guitar riffage that brings to mind Randi Russo. Disinterested begins with even more menacing reverb guitar clang and roar, then follows an allusive All Tomorrow’s Parties-ish tangent, violinist Adam Markiewicz’s sweepingly multitracked string arrangement alternating with fret-melting crush. 

With its simple, plaintive, rainy-day piano, Hindsight starts as a less devastated take on Joy Division’s The Eternal, then the sky darkens as the guitars blot out what’s left of the sun. The album winds up with Rock, which pretty much capsulizes everything this band is about: minimalistically vamping industrial new wave spacerock psychedelia. Who wouldn’t want to see a band do all that live?