Tonstartssbandht
Sorcerer

The beginning of the new millennium might be remembered, musically speaking, for many divergent trends. Personally, there are two main characteristics of the post-2001 years. First, the absurd over-prolificacy of many bands, a side effect of the democratization of recording technologies, where I produce the records myself, so I feel obliged to release any rubbish that I've barely sketched out. Second, the names of the bands; I'm not demanding names that are the same or necessarily meaningful, but lately, it's getting out of hand.

A group that easily reaches the top 5 of the two characteristics listed above could be Tonstartssbandht, two brothers originally from Florida who have now moved to Brooklyn. The name is among the most pointless things I have ever seen written; they might as well have hit random keys, Sun Ra solo style, and the result would be the same. It makes me so annoyed that I haven't even bothered to search online to see if it has any meaning.

As for hyper-productivity, they don't kid around: from 2008 to today, 13 albums before this one “Sorcerer”. An average of Japanese white-collar workers. Despite all these drawbacks, these two nuts have released a very strange album, one that deserves a few lines so as not to go unjustly unheard.

Three tracks for barely 35 minutes of music roughly definable as psychedelic, being three “organized jams”, forgive the oxymoron, which shine for their variety of registers and atmospheres, with fantastic accessibility for the genre. “Breathe” starts slow, supported by an insistent bass line, then speeds up gradually, with a profusion of vocal and guitar effects, leading to an acceleration followed by a synth tail. The title track does even better, starting as a lo-fi psych ballad that stays in your head for months, a strange hybrid of two-voice garage psych, which reminds me of some obscure English freakbeat group from the '60s, like Elmer Gantry's Velvet Opera, before melting into a liquid, drugged-out ending. Finally, “Opening” starts off like low-fidelity Coral, or like someone on acid trying to play country complete with slide, continuing on a slippery jazzy ridge, ending downhill with the Mama's & Papas. If you get over the fact that you can't talk to anyone about the band (try pronouncing the name, I dare you), you'll have a small box of psychedelic gems that's not bad at all.