Crippled Black Phoenix
A Love Of Shared Disaster

And now for something completely different.

When I read it, in bits and pieces on the internet, I could hardly believe it. I thought it was a joke, a game.

What do Mogwai, Electric Wizard, and Portishead have in common? Wait, I'll answer that, as the self-appointed top of the class: "Nothing at all!". And above all, screw Mogwai, who besides giving insipid blowjobs to someone like Zidane - and come on, the idea of a soundtrack to an athletic gesture is already sad in itself... - are also one of the most intriguingly boring bands on the globe (meaning, in my opinion, they are splendid for compilations with a "badass but reflective" mood; a whole CD of theirs is a real pain). As for Electric Wizard, I won't argue, I love them, I consider them nearly better than tantric sex and one of the most evocative and powerful bands ever, and the same goes for Portishead who, in their way and in completely opposite ways, feed on a dark grace and a 'charm' that transcends personal tastes in the genre.

So, we are back to square one. What are Justin Greaves (former drummer of Iron Monkey and Electric Wizard), Mogwai bassist Dominic Aitchison, Andy Semmens and Kostas Panagiotou from Pantheist (I miss them, if you know them, give me a shout) plus Joe Volk from Gonga (I have them: heavy-psych-stoner to keep an eye on) produced by Invada Records, run by Geoff Barrow of Portishead, doing on the same record??? They're making an album. Damn, I think, if they even come close to a presentable mix of the different styles of the original bands, they've created the album of the century, and no one else stands a chance!

But instead, no way, nada, nothing... quite the opposite. Recorded in a primitive manner, barely amplifying equipment dating from the Victorian era (wow!), suspended between dark fractals and ballads with an archaic flavor, "A Love Of Shared Disasters" is the classic album definable as atmospheric. And while avoiding inappropriate comparisons, an obvious observation: if it's true that certain stuff only comes out well for people like Dead Can Dance (who truly make music art), there's no art here, and the music is stripped to the bone. "Paranoic thickenings": which in the English language doesn't really mean anything except that someone like David Lynch would get off to an album like this for an entire year, specifically directing a psychodrama-fantahorror for sure success. Everything is very dark, very soundscape, very soundtrack for the end of the world. With barely hinted tone increases, electro-acoustic folk songs with a November flavor that leave something to be desired and, above all, feel already heard... copied... and again, already heard.

At times deadly boring, at times two minutes of eternal sighs, then boredom again.

And I didn't say joy.

But "two minutes".