One of the best releases of 2004: the Liars, a New York trio led by Angus Andrew, leave behind what they had achieved in their first release and in the split with Oneida to amaze us, with a capital A.
Ten tracks with mile-long titles, all centered around the theme of witchcraft: dark music that unravels like a bad trip through the darkest recesses of the human soul, lyrics like mantras obsessively repeated, sometimes exploding in pure anguish (the opening "Broken Witch") and other times remaining in a hypnotic and sickly calm; sometimes post-industrial rhythms that throw you into a disturbing future, mechanical and repetitive, with no room for diversity, other times tribal, liberating and primal ("Hold Hands"); continuous and psychedelic flows of noise and atonality (the unsettling "Steam Rose"), and in the end, you no longer know where you are, surrounded by insane keyboards and chirps (the closing "Flow My Tears").
The only "easily" accessible tracks are the corrosive "There's Always Room On Your Broom," which subtly connects to the band's previous work and perhaps recalls the Butthole Surfers, and "They Don't Want Your Corn," which smells of El Guapo, especially on the electronic side; here and there subtle reminiscences of early Sonic Youth and Pop Group, especially for the form of sound magma created.
Unconventional, illogical, dirty, and sick music, songs (???) that few know how to create, and even fewer so well, in a period when the revival of Garage Rock, especially in NYC, rules the scene.
Not to hear, but to listen to carefully and multiple times: you might not like it, but it's impossible to remain indifferent.
It's definitely not an easy record; some sounds can definitely hurt your brain.
An album seemingly without melodies hidden by the various noises present.
Their sound becomes murky, grabbing the listener by the hair and dragging them into a disorienting dimension made of rusty melodies and ghostly voices.
An insane and undefinable album that leaves you stunned by its power and corrosivity.