The Mars Volta
Noctourniquet

This crazy crazy world of music-loving gourmands is crowded with people eagerly awaiting the new release from Mars Volta to split into two categories and point fingers to proclaim that:

Group 1) "Wait a moment... this is not the new De-Loused in the Comatorium" and

Group 2): "I told you, I told you these are not the new King Crimson";

the ones belonging to the first group are those who, since 2003, have been expecting a repeat of the debut album, perhaps to propitiate the second coming of the Jesus Christ of progressiveness zero years, they even got afro hair a là Cedric&Omar, only to be disappointed by a spectacular letdown with the change of hairstyle of the good singer who magically transformed into the quintessential Latin emo, while the second group has been repeating the refrain "these haven't invented anything" since 2003 and tattooed it on their chest under the image of a naked Robert Fripp. And once again, both will be satisfied, except those of the first group will have to admit that it's the best work since "Frances The Mute". Enough said. The most varied, the least "let me get back to random slobbering progressive moments hey listen to how many passages there are", the most emotional, could it be the hairstyle? And the least inconclusive.

First off: if you're expecting a ton of guitars on "The Whip Hand" beware not to hit your teeth against the wall when instead you find yourself in front of the fuzzatronic synth opening of the refrain. And even here, it's particularly interesting. But we can just as easily comment on the riff directly from Radiohead's headquarters in the beautiful "Aegis". The definitive victory of the song form as a symptom of pleasure reaches its peak with the electric ballad "Empty Vessels Make The Loudest Sound" where the rustling arpeggio escorts the voice on drum delays that have little cosmic but aim you straight into the orbit of the choruses, where hypnotized by the beauty of the vocal line you will be distracted by the insane tangle of slicer guitar that appears out of nowhere, and Cedric becomes more and more a feminine and velvety being. But this little disc is rich with ballads, take the acoustic desert of "Trinkets Pale Of Moon" which juxtaposes pure unplugged aspirations with electronic gasps that might also trace back to Yorke & co., and even "Imago", though full of delay, caresses the heart. If you think of Burial when you listen to the intro of "Lapochka" I don't think you'd be far off, considering the surgical drum assaults are more dubstep than prog. Shall we mention Mr. Deantoni Parks, the inhuman drummer of the new Volta incarnation for a moment? Let's mention him and enjoy his electronic patterns like a machine, as if listening to half Jojo Mayer and half Squarepusher, and certainly a child of the sounds he absorbs from the maximum sound city that is New York, and the demonstration of this insane openness is all there to enjoy on the fabulous "In Absentia" which in terms of rhythms, sounds, mutant keyboard work, and reggae deviations is more De Facto than Volta, only to clash with a melodic and vocal line that surpasses the twists to turn into a pop orgasm ready to stick anywhere. But for those in the first group, there's a "consolation" because "Molochwalker" is the classic Volta surge, only that it's the best one in ages.

I belong to a third group: "A nail right in the face for me".