Noxagt
Noxagt

Speaking of this band with little elegance is extremely difficult for me.

There are several reasons that lead me to think this way: first and foremost is the sound, sparse and impersonal if analyzed at first glance, cold yet extremely communicative if explored with great interest. Yes, because it is important to note that if you think you are dealing with the usual group intent on ridiculing works of pure extreme art made by S. Albini, you are close to making a colossal mistake, because Noxagt tackle the icy flow of guitar metal with a bewitching and destructive approach at the same time, especially with this latest masterpiece of theirs that leaves behind years of experimentation entrusted to string instruments such as the viola, interpreted like never before, and thus an unmistakable sign of a shift towards experimentation ever more aimed at making clear the restrictiveness with which music of a certain type can survive today.

Rust poetry takes shape in channels increasingly similar to copper pipes, where the sound enters and exits almost in a copulative manner. Poetry that leaves to reflection the ultimate task of giving meaning to a sci-fi (or perhaps real?) world in which the negation of being travels through cushioned cables from which the spirit emerges defeated but not perished. Strident steel textures to the point of permeating the listening experience even after several seconds after it's over, perhaps due to drum rhythms that can afford such an indoctrinating metric as to trigger mechanisms of irreversible nature. In the analyzed pieces, the double channel prevails over the monochromatic glossy quality of today's composition, where it is indeed the artist who gets lost: but this does not happen with Noxagt skilful in knowing how to tackle the sonic space extremely rationally, giving every slightest sound frequency a corresponding arrangement dosed almost with obsession. Yet, there is an imperceptible bottom, a reverberation of such measure as to allow all this Baconian schematism to indulge in flashes of mysticism that possess the arcane power to radiate shivers never perceived before, as in the case of the masterful "Soft Sugar," where the minutes separate from one another through chameleonic breaks of industrial manufacture.

No voice, no verbal message. Just the simple attempt to give the unaware listener the impression of a tangible aftertaste capable of remaining shaded between one piece and another, almost serving as a binder.

Ultimately, something truly special. Special to the point of striking the few sensitive souls who manage to understand the modern drama of the impossibility of alternative expression to the (already) alternative forms compared to the modern canons of composing-destroying song motifs. Take my advice, a band like this deserves much attention, because not everyone manages to express so many sensations and sounds in a spiral of existential-consumerist gloss that every day infests the trendiest supermarket shelves.

I entrust to your conscience, one of the most interesting listens that deceased contemporary music has had the honor to expel onto me.