Whirr
Distressor

We are postmodern, and of shoegaze all that's left is a tabletop layering of fuzz, reverse reverb, parkinsonian tremolo and maybe, maybe, an obsolete rack-mount multi-effects processor that only Kevin Shields knows how to draw out the whitest, most ASMR sound in history - with all due respect to those socialites of the Velvet Underground, for example - with a Yamaha dinosaur like that, a Jazzmaster, and equalization work. So he says.

Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response: if Blue - it's in Distressor - doesn't give you the warm wind, the tingling in the nape of the neck and the desire to sleep in a womb for eternity, you can't understand. It's pointless to inform yourselves.

It's said that the abuse of reverb on female voices, the whisper, the reverse, the frenzied tremolo, the constant pulse, the chaotic distance - together - recall the primordial auditory experience: the uterine one. The melancholics have a long memory and revel in reminiscences like in amniotic fluid.

Melody is a prerequisite of the communal musical dimension: it is a threat to intimacy; I love shoegaze, I don't like shoegaze songs. I prefer the Cocteau Twins.

You won't listen to Distressor because the riff of Leave is so nineties and sounds familiar to you, or because Pitchfork gave it a good review - screw that - because you're curious to understand what new thing the third shoegaze wave offered in 2011 - I'll tell you: nothing - or to slip a Californian group from Tee Pee into your hip playlists, or for some other absurd reason I refuse to understand.

We are postmodern, Shields makes more noise alone than the three of Whirr, we've heard it all before, unforgettable, in my opinion, a dispensable album: let's say this is a drone that dissolves in the distance. You've listened to shoegaze for months, all of you: try to remember.

If you manage, you'll listen to Distressor for the sensory response, the induced narcolepsy, the amniotic melancholy.