Giddy Motors
Do Easy

Although the (wise) popular saying states that ""è ben plùs facile il dirsi che non il faticoso farsi", the trois Londinesi in quaestionem not only affirm, but do (and do well, in abundance).

Paraphrasing the main title of the second long-distance work of the Motorized outfit, through which I venture to pen this new, unreadable and sincerely exhilarating, if not phantasmagoric, listening-writing action, we could maintain that it is not concretely so simple to positively extract what these (toileting) Signori Quà have extrapolated.

Compared to the commendable debut, "Make It Pop" '02, sanctified by the Albinian trademark, the Wattage on offer is noticeably increased: the sound becomes more "urgent", turgid, lashing, but avoids neglecting, as one might legitimately expect [more "Muscles" extruded = less "Nervous system" exploited], of refining their already by no means disagreeable proposal.

Alas: I may also be an incorrigible crude noise(roq)-nostalgic (chillonega) but this loud and unexpectedly enjoyable disc, besides shaving and finishing (for ex.) the latest "Monochrome" Helmet, descends, in its short (thirty-three minutes available: hence the last three ["Dot Dot Dot"] only a lackluster divertissement) entirety, into the welcoming and thirsty audio-gargle with the most complete and pleasant, refreshing fluidity {I could venture the coinage [NO Bonolesque Packs absorbed, relationship] of a new sub-genre: Water-Rock! {come on: it doesn’t sound so bad.. we've heard worse, haven’t we?} but we are not "here" -plural strictly majestatic- to expand, with grandiose para-descriptive neologisms the multi-volume Zingarellame, but to talk about the muscular/sparkling (CcccsssssssSS: those would be... bubbles) new work of the excellent sound-locksmiths Giddy and Motors.

That the explosive opening track has a significant homonymy with a known, for Unsane-aficionados, desound-brand fragment ("Sick") I found it a significant as well as appropriate de-circo/stanza.

In truth, the axis on which this graceful maelstrom moves could not only be identified with the (fantastic) bloodthirsty New Yorkers, but we could also add the double option Fudge Tunnel/Helmetatoric, with, at times, a curious vocal timbre (stripped of metallic "tonsil-stress") Tom Aryan (listen to the skull-breaking "Krapow"), all permeated by a fantastic variety and unexpected usability in the solutions mixed with dangerous executional ease, which, if it does not possess the gift of complete amazement, it comes perilously close.

Then anal-ysing the det-terminant factors pertaining to the det-tested CD, we would obtain this formula:

{Insane Cuts ("Nego") + Helmetian Whips ("Sick") : [agile rigor Fudge_Tunnelian ("Early Morning Pipe") x sporadic dried-Slayer-like vocals]}

= great, compelling, by no means derivative little record (antzychénot).

P.S. Rigorously, needless to say, for algebra enthusiasts.