DARK DAY
Exterminating Angel

It's time to come to terms with the so-called "dark" scene, once and for all! It's also time to do so without relying on well-established artists and groups that have long since entered the canon (Bauhaus, Joy Division, etc.). Here, we propose listening to an album full of ideas, in some ways even fundamental to what would become the musical atmosphere of the nineties and later; a work that is, once again, difficult to find both in stores and even in the bustling world of the Web (here we host a free competition to improvise as digital philologists, searching for the texts written by the man responsible for the 'project' Dark Day: Robin Crutchfield).

The restless gentleman mentioned above, born and raised in the deep, rural, opaque American province (Pennsylvania), quickly realized the existential and resilient necessity to move to New York; there, unsatisfied with a cosmopolitan atmosphere, he approached the most underground area of the Big Apple, founding the DNA together with a genius like Arto Lindsay: it was the time of the rising tide of the No Wave. However, his restless personality did not settle even in the face of such creativity; in 1979, our man fled the DNA and founded Dark Day. The following year, the fruit of his spiritual and artistic pilgrimage emerged: "Exterminating Angel" (1980, Lust/Unlust). The title already reveals the references and icons upon which Crutchfield builds his research: "El ángel exterminador", the enigmatic masterpiece by Luis Bunuel, dates from 1962; the tributes continue with a decidedly swayed cover towards the "mirror series" by Man Ray; among the musicians, he enlisted Phil Kline, Barry Friar, and the lunar Steven Brown borrowed from Tuxedomoon.

Side A: The record opens with "Raven’s wing", of wonderful hypnotic simplicity; dark circular percussions join the synthesizer; the guitar work, with a pang of the heart, brings to mind the unforgettable (and forgotten) Sounds, through inlays that merge into a surreal march. In "Forced Landing", with a compositional structure similar to the previous track, electronic distortions introduce the reciting voice (bring back Current 93) of Robin Crutchfield; it's essentially a skeletal ska played in slow motion; the synth disguises itself as an artificial accordion, but it's always the guitar that plays the role of the Narrator; the extremely dark text slides over the notes, stumbles, sobs, seems to recover, then vanishes. With "Arp’s Carpet", the logic does not change; the harmonies are seemingly simple, based on tonal mirroring; the material is increasingly plastic, the voice mumbles crumpled, gothic, chiaroscuro textual forms; there are no alternative paths. "Chameleon" emphasizes electric reverberations, echoes, and replicating hammers, while an icy drum pleases the general line of the theme; the voice seems, for the first time, to dare a chant, yet the words and music ensure absolute dominance of an abstract, essential nihilism, a sort of Japanese graphical sign composed of ink droplets sliding over each other like on a windowpane. In comparison, Joy Division, to whom Dark Day is often casually compared, resemble friendly jokers. Following a not very happy "Crown of Thorns", characterized by a toy-like harmonic line, disturbing and relentless in its repetitiveness, comes the crisp "No, nothing, never": artistic consistency is assured! Here the speech is tight and theatrical with inserts of a female voice; the text plays on the various forms of negation present in the English language; it is anti-rhetorical, almost barren, coercive in its icy, restrained emotion. Pause. End of the first half.

Side B greets us (so to speak) with "Laughing Up Your Sleeve", truly the closest thing on the entire album to 'Closer', especially in the percussive structure; trails of synthesizers alternate with minimalist reverbs well supporting the sung narration that chooses a quasi-syllabization, contributing to an ominous solemnity. Beautiful. The 'trajectory-less birds' of "Flightless birds" are the synthesis of the reversed and negative dynamic that pervades the entire album; it seems that the notes are a pre-text, a corollary not so much to the words, but to the absence of words, to the impossibility of adding anything other than desert, desolation, absence (listen to the disconcerting guitar finale, the most alienated and autistic thing you might find in rock music). Surpassing a not particularly inspired "Crib Death", we encounter "Diving Belle", with a circular structure that creates floating harmonic knots, where the electric piano, busy capturing images, lets visions and suggestions slip by, dragging the piece into a distorted and paroxysmal dance. "Me, myself and I" is one of the few instances that recall the song form, at least in the use of the voice, always very rarefied, subtractive, surreal; electronic rhythmic obsession and tongue snaps complete a very successful and effective piece. "Uninvited Guests" speaks of loneliness, rendered palpable even by the sonorities and therefore almost impressionistic-descriptive, in its chiaroscuro and imploded membrane. The grand finale presents itself with "Trapped", which is nothing but a gloomy and programmatic march; the piano and guitar are accompanied in counterpoint by bells and chimes that advise against listening if you feel, for some reason, restless and alone in the world, perhaps on a dark night. "Trapped" closes in an emblematic way a mysterious and dark album, whose charm compels constant listening, retrievings, revaluations, and new wonders.

"Exterminating Angel" is an important, imperfect, enigmatic, cruel, salvific, contradictory record, precisely: a bit like the Exterminating Angel of the film alluded to in the title: no one sees it, but everyone feels it's there.