Vår
No One Dances Quite Like My Brothers

Knowing what music might play in the club and what kind of people may cross its threshold, I could imagine one of those gloomy places where the light flickers in time with the bass drum in prehistoric times. Rude cavemen with uncertain posture mimicking the aping of apes, raising their hands to the sky and shouting “Maughaugha”. There are no hyper-spatial synthesizers strangling synapses; the keyboards are lugubrious and dark, creating suffocating and jagged landscapes. The rhythm is not for Ravers but still shakes the limbs, and the musical and vocal obsessiveness enters the ears in a lysergic manner. The sonic deception brought by the Var alternates with almost arrhythmic electric landscapes, like refreshing pauses between one industrial dance and another.

This time, I bring the deception too. I would have liked to fly at cloud height among these hammering spectres and vibrating environments, but the typical indie rock sounds of the '10s are added in “industrial” quantities (I even made a joke); sweet lullabies and slower post-atomic ballad-like cadences come in even in the ignorant tracks where one would have expected even more ignorance, propelled by a strong wind, horns, and trumpets and/or the typical reverberated guitars that have almost accompanied us to nauseousness in these recent times.

I pull a Silvio and flip the omelet over myself: the mix of sounds still comes out strong, the heaviness complements a slightly bland guitar, which finds its strength in its simplicity.

An elaborate sound developed for a long time now by this Scandinavian Post-Punk scene, which is spreading like wildfire even to listeners less inclined. The typical dirty and anesthetized voice that leaves little room for ferocity; the nightmare of dreaming of one's rosy future and waking up in everyday pessimism.