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Carter Tutti Void – f(x)


Carter Tutti Void - f(x)That foetal thump propelling this is cavernous; and at high volume it’s huge. Dynamically churning up the digital silt as collapsing structures fall through in cacophonies of brokenness, shadowy vectors that smoulder in the arch of pulsing ambiguity. Yep, my favourite trio Carter Tutti Void are back with more post-industrial mutations to be savoured.

The splintered majesty that started with Transverse (and I still can’t believe that was a live recording) has been given a studio makeover, transposing its predecessor’s pristine sheen with a f(x) glaucoma that dirties things up a touch. A darkened stage that lets those vivid (and vivid they are) splashes really shine, captures the slow disintegration of form beautifully — a perpetual collision and explosive gristle that banquets on its own mirage(ing) momentums.

The poetry of a compound eye horneting the wah hoo(s) that Chris Carter injects into the fray in a malaise of beats/rhythms for Cosey Fanni Tutti and Nik Void (of Factory Floor fame) to duel across, their guitars conduits of destructive rebirth. A vibrant headspace anchored by lush veils of programming that empathetically capture the sulphurous dance of cataclysm and throw them into an hallucination of swirling counterbalance. A claustrophobic, dubby vibe, as if caught in the symphonic eddy of an MRI, echoing the hidden engine of our lives replete with sparrow-like shivers and soft banshee moans.

Captivating stuff that’s far removed from the museum’s dusty brackets as you can get, firmly rooted in the now, bristling with an innovative sensibility. Every track hurrying at you in layered excitements and fractured anxiety, then the vocals hit, complete the picture in an apparitional avalanche. All distended, chorusing, half-discerned words, petering vowels smearing the marmite of enlightenment inside your skull. Personally, I wanted more (don’t we all?), but I needn’t have complained as the murmuring preface heralded a misty Chris’n’Cosey moment, splashing your head like an aerosoled “Send The Magick Down” or that creepy number off Muzik Fantastique! that I’ve totally forgotten the name of.

Bloody beautiful stuff wrought in fret fireworks, gasoline rainbows and the accidental spill of polluted patter.

-Michael Rodham-Heaps-

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