The Dead C
White House

Explosive material. Staying away would be the best choice. Yet, masochistically, one ventures in. Again and again, you want more. That noise that seemingly twists upon itself becomes something more; it penetrates and corrodes from within. It goes beyond analog dissonances, the synthesizer becomes the zenith of the funeral whirlwind already widely sketched out by the guitars of Bruce Russell and Michael Morley: it skirts the threshold of the noise, first venturing into it.

"White House" is a pachyderm that ruthlessly crushes every residue of "artistic sensibility". The Dead C play, thus, at distancing themselves, only for the thrill of being brought back. And every time you bring them back, their sadistic game starts again. The reward for the stoics able to endure this “playful” activity is contained entirely between the lines of the same. After a predictably initial disorientation, it will be easy to dive into the drones of "The New Snow"; while the lashing distortions in loop of "Outside" are nothing but the natural continuation of a lullaby, a child of both Sonic Youth and a Lou Reed, an apocalyptic poet on the roof of the Earth - awaiting deflagration - in 2012. Surpassing the threshold of alienation, "Your Hand" will even seem like a completely normal Noise piece, covered by a subdued melody that cries out for revenge, and structurally, the same could be said of "Bitcher", the most "American" track of the lot.

Finally, after shaking off the stupor due to layers and sublayers of noise, one must, rationally, channel this work into a sectoral scope, separate music and (non)music. After the initial inhibition, there will be space solely for awe. Grey and unsettling(ly), the three New Zealanders manage to root themselves within the listener with a slowness that travels hand in hand with their mood. Time and listens will reveal things we (humans) never wanted to see. And it will be so pleasant to let oneself be engulfed by the vortex.