2024-03-12 12:56:49
More direct and uncompromising, more self-confident and more focused: Kim Gordon has it The Collective the consistent continuation of her great 2019 solo debut No Home Record recorded.
The 70-year-old goes even further (and more definitively than five years ago) into industrial hip hop, roughened by noise rock hatchings and electro avant-gardisms, the aesthetics of Sonic Youth However, it can still be discerned beneath the radically changed surface following the stylistic paradigm shift of 2019.
A contrast that is important: The Collective Its appeal also comes from the fact who is the originator of the postmodern sound world that abstracts these trends – i.e. from the stylistic divergence Sonic Youth-Iconography, although this ultimately does not represent a seemingly surreal rebellion once morest expectations (let alone an encroachment of gentrification), but rather a well-formulated consolidation of a point of view, the humorous sharpness of which is just as impressive as the sure-footedness with which Gordon authentically follows in the footsteps of Death Grips and similar consorts.
BYE BYE works with a dark, sedatively booming downbeat, whose fidgeting hi hats rattle in experimental trap, stoically nodding its head. The guitars creak and beep as if infected by a digital virus, Gordon laments a Dadaist litany as social criticism. The fact that the catharsis probably works better for the artist herself as a statement than for the listener on an emotional level cannot be completely dismissed – a trance that is as interesting and stylish as it is dense and atmospherically captivating is exemplary of this The Collective overall result nonetheless.
And once you get hooked, the track collection captivates you as a homogeneous kaleidoscope, atmospheric and, despite its solid badness, quite multifaceted.
The Candy House cultivates a subcutaneous shambles of monotony, cobbling together and in I Don’t Miss My Mind swell from the viscous Dälek-Drone thrusts with an anthemic foreboding, to which Gordon whispers in the mystical reverb. In I’m a Man On the other hand, she chants with lethargic anger over harsh noise guitars, where the framework acts with a more aggressive undertone, urgently scraping and poisonous, cultivating, as everywhere else, a symbiosis of voice and (the beat-technically more ascetic than sophisticated original progressiveness) musical backdrop.
Trophies is a disjointed, meandering fever dream with disturbing dynamics and It’s Dark Inside deconstructs a familiar indie rock melody through the stubborn mode, meanwhile Psychedelic Orgasm a kind of R&B hint sprinkled into the chorus. Tree House modulates metal sketches into a fragmentary beat skeleton, Shelf Warmer is more atmospheric and dark oriented, The Believers a confrontation course between abrasive, aggressive frontality and conciliatory, assertive introversion.
After Dream Dollar has decomposed further and further while jogging on the highway, perhaps over the course of The Collective At best, it has a relative insight value, because the horizon of the record ends where it began, but as a claim to territory in a similar tradition to Scott Walker, it makes perfect sense.
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