Cave
Psychic Psummer

For some strange and arcane reason, the few albums that I liked this year are more or less all marked by terrible artwork. Quite an outdated detail, considering that nowadays 90% of listening is done in the impalpable and ethereal mp3 format.

Perhaps for this reason, many artists seem to care little about offering a design that is not exceptional but at least sufficient (if only out of respect for us poor wretches who still give you money). And it's a real pity. Because the idea of graphically representing one's musical vision has always been interesting, and very often a cover was a visual surplus to the music. Okay, we agree that the limited space of the CD requires different graphic management, but there have been many interesting examples over the years.

It seems like the Cave just recorded the album and then entrusted the artwork to some stoned friend of theirs. There is no other explanation for the horrible color combination on the cover, not to mention the tacky syncretic Indo symbolism that is barely discernible, not only from the file on the internet but even when holding the original in your hands. Not to mention the terrible interior of the digipack: you can’t even make out the names of the tracks, and it looks like those illustrations of hunting in my grandfather’s encyclopedias. And there's not even a taste for the vintage effect; it's just total graphic incompetence.

It's a shame, I repeat, because the guys put a lot of effort into making their blend of Oneida-like tribalisms, kraut keyboards, and freak reminiscences believable. Already the initial “Gamm” contains some of the ingredients just listed, even more recognizable in the almost post-punk vibe of the following “Made In Malaysia”. The singing is rough, often mumbled and overshadowed by the instruments, giving the whole thing a psychotic aura, almost a sweetened and digestible version of the P.I.L. (take this with a grain of salt). Among little trips on the autobahn of sorts (“High, I Am”), robotic requiems for spastic musicians (“Requiem For John Sex”), and Stereolab torn between methadone and amphetamine (“Machines And Muscles”), we arrive in just over half an hour at the end of the psychic summer.

The heat remains, the sense of schizophrenia gradually fades, the desire to listen to it all again persists for a while. But the artwork remains crap.