Celan
Halo

There is a red thread that connects New York and Berlin or, if we want to create a linguistic-musical contingency, a leitmotiv. At the two extremes, we find sir Chris Spencer and Ari Benjamin Meyers. The first, but from the "sir" you've already guessed, is Mr. Unsane. He yells uncontrollably and torments the guitar without any mercy, he is the symbol of urban illness, he is the sound of the end. The second, however, might not be as well-known, collaborates with Einstürzende Neubauten playing synth and piano, sometimes in studio, sometimes live. Both probably have an out-of-control particle called "extreme" within their bodies, and each manages it in their own way. From this particle as a premise, the two decide to torment others' ears with a new creature. This new creature takes on a name that is a whole program, a program made of pain, steeped in darkness, the name is Celan (and if you want an explanation about Paul Celan, you can just open a good book on literature yourself). However, Celan needs other components to better translate the extreme urgency they feel inside, so they call on Phil Roeder and Franz Xaver from flu.ID (a band that accompanied the Unsane creature on tour) and to complete the circle, Niko Wenner (does Oxbow ring a bell?). At that point, Meyers probably makes a phone call to master Blixa Bargeld asking him for the keys to the AndereBaustelle Studio. Once obtained, it was time to create discomfort and simply call it Halo.

It's an album that hurts horrifically, it's an album that moves slowly, very slowly, from one ear to the other leaving only anxiety in its wake. "A Thousand Charms" is a bright example. Introduced by Spencer's desperate scream, it launches a melody of a rare sadness, a dirty arpeggio walking in step with a synth that will have the chance to unfold in noise flights when the piece starts to take on the muscular part of Unsane noise-rock, implanting a circular riff that bends right in the middle of nowhere. With "Sinking" we descend underground, the rhythm is desperate and slow, a Neurosis-like symptom, the bass is rotten, the cadence is accompanied by a chant not typical of Spencerian strings, but the result is anxiety-inducing, takes your breath away, Meyers channels a nice almost eighties melody into it all and follows the electric explosions well. Disturbing is the broken rhythm of "Weigh Tag" which shows industrial teeth, continuous repetitive sheet sounds, followed by a rhythm section on the edge of paranoia. If you're not ready, "Washing Machine" will leave you on your backside, it's a silence filled with ash-gray atmospheres, with the noise of drain water in the background, scattered notes, and signs of Radiohead-like memory, the piano enters movingly with the guitar, the soul and intimate side of the two head of the red thread is shown in a moment of pure grayness. Moments that come back, that aren't lost, that reconnect in the very long, lavish and devastating "Lunchbox", which in twelve minutes will tear you apart, oh yes it will. The piano insists in a melodic loop of endless gloom, it's almost a moment of nocturnal jazz that looks in the eyes of the post-rock from some gentlemen arriving from Glasgow, it's calm and peace between tears and coal, and in a growing silence comes the drum, counterpoints of cymbals, piano and without hurry, and always without hurry the piano adds different melodic counterpoints, until the arrival of the guitar distortion that climbs onto a synth that scratches the brain walls and finally explodes freeing all the instruments, in a surge of cold despair.

A worthy farewell.