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Where in the Party Boys (where Marnie played bass) there was a cynicism that stripped the listener through a tribal voodoo of cultured animal retroactivity, solo Marnie Weber continues the quest and uncovering of circuitous aggression by shifting the underground bubble onto floating and suspensions of horrific sinuosity that the "primitiveness" of the previous combo openly flayed.
Here it veers towards an inner cannibalism that scrapes at a different psychic level, more impersonal, as if it were a nonexistent invitation to a conscious disintegration. The soundscapes sway changing, attractive, yet tremendously unsettling in their lack of a comfort zone that usually everyone identifies in the justification of the lies we tell ourselves.
Weber puts aside the filters of accommodating reality and without frills invites us on a direct journey to the visualization of alien lands where the creatures that live there are like her bizarre art installations, unexpected in their pristine improbability.
The siren-like chants synthesize flashes of evolved witchcraft, dynamicized by a black cloak where the alchemical cape wipes the slate clean on the hopeful expectation of "better times" and mystifies the deceitful goodness with a gratifying absence that defies the counting of time.
The hovering of a stateless Circe witch freezing the target of the spell shuns doubts about the genuine androgyny of the sounds, where the petrifications are not at the expense of past Gorgons since the Justice of the lullabies lashes them all on our backs. It is precisely the harsh straightforwardness of the deep auditory prank proposed that reassures us in having to confront our "nightmares" where an invisible off-program trains us to consider less and less the fears that unbalance our souls.
The atmospheres, the screeches, the carillons, the twilight rides, set up "above rock," never fall into mannerisms, do not fit into astute alternative clichés, do not wink.
One might misunderstand it as capturing a complacent decay but which seems to me at most eternalized, excluding even the association with an intimate suffering where Weber aptly frames the omniscient whim turned Word that lazily reveals "divinities."
Naughty Marnie with her dowsing cap (from the cover of the Greek edition) crowns herself an Alice subway made in Los Angeles CA, where an impersonal vanity seasons the lucid hypnotization that enticingly involves us in choosing the path most suitable to us, which the crossroads of the compositions attempt.
A track on the album is titled "You Are Welcome On My Island," do you feel like making a courtesy visit?
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