Here we go again. The crisis of manners and the loss of moral references right up to the brink of total collapse: Growing are Kevin Doria and Joe DeNardo, shamans of the last (h)our, authors of albums like Blade Runner on a multiple-recorded VHS, with an obsession to reverb the spectral sound of their burned-out minds.
A kind of sonic science fiction plagued by a sort of (techno?) flow for charity institutions; greasy, mesmerizing music, as fluid and loquacious as it is pernicious and laden with (e)scatological scenarios: strange comparisons come to mind, I think of Eno invaded by abyssal worms.
Here more than elsewhere the epic trip of the duo explodes into a soundtrack for lounge bars populated by three-headed aliens: the atmospheric and galactic sound becomes the icon of the entirely modern disproportion between being and having to be, between a world without borders, dominated by dimensionless reverberated galaxies (see "Lateral" which is more or less a factory test for a flanger mistakenly assigned to Kevin Shields) and the garbage of real reality ("After Glow" has a guitar line that "resembles rock (??) but is more likely the result of some afternoon incest between Golowin late for cosmic deliveries and the ennui of the My Bloody lost in some watery mescaline down).
Where is the truth? To what extent is this new cosmic "weirdo" wave a serious form of art? Isn't it, after all, the black shadow cone where the energies of many of our young get burned? What does this jam mean, how many streams of poisonous water are lost in this cancerous delta populated by strange presences, instead of infiltrating high-fidelity stereo speakers?
Obviously, I don’t have the answers, but I would like to interpret the disjointed rhythms of "Swell", plunging hits in a sort of rave tumor dawn, and I would also like to understand whether there is a subtext to read the oceanic waves of "First Contact", a feverish swing for fuzz and dynamics of the third kind. The doubt remains.
In any case, to listen to Growing, a few Lorazepam tablets are essential, or the idea that it's all a scam will make you regret having believed my words; after all, I'm a fan of theirs.
Keep an eye on them, but from afar.
Post Scriptum: Growing's career is dotted with "great planetary successes." Obviously, in Nippon-Koku, they are stars, people who fill up concerts (?). To avoid falling into fatal sleep or being simplified by the typical scythe of abulia from tranquilizer overdose, I also recommend the "masterpiece" "All The Way," where the two come across as cavemen discovering fire. Roller coasters of phasers, techno descents, and ascents for mental divers.
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