Fuck Buttons
Slow Focus

In the memories of early childhood, images seem to have that characteristic yellowed-paper color, where objects appear to move and sway in a slow dance, enclosed in an ethereal state of hibernation. Like the pachyderm advance of a tsunami, they swell and expand, disrupting any possibility of fixing them in memory. Creating a strong jolt at their first impact, they extend into a state of sublimation that makes everything soft, airy.

Like a shuttle taking off, they transform tons of material into a graceful, plastic motion. Everything seems to float in mid-air, with no concern for the enormous weight that the earth draws to itself. Thus spreads the sense of evanescent lightness that extends even to celestial bodies.

A boulder collapsing in on itself, becoming a feather: this is the sound that the latest effort by Fuck Buttons tends to emanate. A carpet of drones that crush, annihilate, oppress until they release into vaporous exhalations. There is the sensation of being penetrated by granite blocks without feeling pain. You only sense the underlying lightness, the empty space of those molecules firmly bonded together. It's the weight of everything that becomes catharsis.

Achieving such a feat is, without a doubt, noteworthy: the seven tracks of this third album exemplify the idea expressed so far. Almost as if finding a third path between the noise traits of their debut and the synth overuse of "Tarot Sport." This album is the upward movement towards sidereal spaces: their available instrumentation seems to explode and expand without noise.

The entire album plays on this double-helix structure: a crossing of drones and percussions rising towards hypothetical cosmic scenarios. It's the chase of circular patterns on faint tracks. In this way, the structures rest on syncopated drums, which at times discharge the horizontal openings of various pads to the ground, and at other times tend upwards, creating vortices and spirals with no way out. At that point, the outside world has little to say, engulfed as it is in overwhelming inconsistency.

Like memories buried in memory, this cyclone of sounds gradually dies out, leaving the listener with the impossibility of filling the empty space left behind.