Moin
PASTE

During these spring holidays, at my in-laws' in Salento, I took the opportunity to listen to the variety of records that 2022 has granted us. Many. Too many!
I persevere and listen to swampy bands caught between post-punk and downright lo-fi, while simultaneously managing to pull rabbit carcasses out of a hat, left there to remind us that we are surviving revivalist decades: It is no mystery that in all the arts, we are quenching our thirst from the eighties and nineties, as if to indicate the period of greatest progress for all humanity; sad, hilarious, and exhilarating at the same time and in the same moment. We reflect on this consequence, probably dictated by the exasperation of interconnection between peoples, or more meanly, by the interconnection with the capitalist and thalassocratic leader, who instills in us the worst that a decaying and socialist Europe can absorb.

I find myself immersed in these thoughts that hypothesize a contemporary obscurantism (ironically brought by the plurality of information and the leveling down of criticism, once seen as a collective good for democracy) and I listen to the second work by Moin: Paste.
Moin is an English band born from the "two-faced Janus" project called Raime and the drummer from Vanishing Twin.

It might be me: over thirty but with a teenage soul, yet I can sense a decisively weighted, engaging, and mentholated work. A work that, if it wasn’t clear enough, taps into that cemetery of music: Slint and Shellac, a post-rock that dabbles with post-hardcore, but also Karate, Aerial M, and Tortoise with those murky and interrupted progressions.
The less obvious citation is towards a certain noise-rock that distances itself from no-wave, thinly veiling the inspiration of Sonic Youth, but who cares about that?

The impression of these bands is always that of an exceptional yet timeless work, a kind of punk neoclassicism that's repulsive to even imagine but which is the closest thing to a serious cataloging.

MOIN PASTE