Tortoise
Beacons Of Ancestorship

A bit like seeing the prodigal son returning home, that little fool who wanted to show off, squandered here and there, and now comes to you with his tail between his legs: "schusha, papi, I was wrong!". Because, indeed, the last releases of Tortoise (a name that I believe needs no further introduction) were teetering between the annoying (read "It's All Around You", 2004, their last album of unreleased tracks until now) and the embarrassing (what was the Prince thinking?).

A bit everyone had forgotten about these five whacky guys, who by their very nature are not inclined to media bombardment. After all, we had other things to think about. Meanwhile, they were off, herding pigs.

And so, out of nowhere, I find myself faced with this new work, without even a hint of that curiosity you get when you've been waiting for an album for a while, nor any kind of expectations - even if they had stopped at "TNT", I would have been satisfied (and I don't think I'm the only one).

Yet, already the opener "High Class Slim Came Floatin' In" clearly suggests that, all in all, something has changed radically. In an 8-minute mini-suite, they move from a vaguely jazzy intro, dominated by a compelling bass groove and a pompous Moog, to a roughly ambient-psychedelic intermezzo with a stuttering rhythm, finally breaking into a liberating tum pa tum pa (notice the sophistication of this definition) garnished with scattered fuzz and 3/4 keyboarding that disorients everything. Almost vanished is the aura of age (but let's face it, Tortoise was born old) that so afflicted "It's All...", replaced by a strong prog vein - and a touch of craft - that stands out especially in the following "Prepare Your Coffin", a piece that Robert Fripp would probably have been delighted to include if not in "Red", at least in King Crimson's pre-1974 repertoire. The record continues with electronic flourishes always in the name of the Moog ("Northern Something"), intricate polyrhythms reminiscent of Don Caballero ("Monument Six One Thousand"), pseudo-punk flourishes covered in fuzz ("Yinxianghechengqi"...eh?) - all combined with a masterfully gritty production, a cover as minimal as it is spot-on, and an overall length suited to not bore the spirits (45 minutes is just right, isn't it?).

What can I say? An amnesty can be granted to dogs and pigs, and it's always nice to find the lost godchild in great shape! Welcome back, Tortoise!