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Now – Innard Listeningestion


Now - Innard ListeningestionThere’s a certain mild krautishness nurturing in those Kinder Egg diode flashes, a light-hearted flush of danceability that’s swimming in the real and the synthetic in equal amounts. Oddly punctured textures and filtered sequins that seem to bubble-burst plenty of satisfied grins, a childlike tinkering perfectly matching the lurid orange vinyl and crayoned graphics of its package.

“Innards” starts the ball rolling, its super-cute measures amok with squelching Paddington Bear galoshes bouncing off cling film-coated puddles. A curl-e-whirling of vocals, light and airly remainders to a tinselated rhythmic goodness, popsicles dream-feeding soft cushioned contours and jangling xylo-tonics of a catchy number that’ll haunt you with its fancy footwork. “Listening Forward To It” adds an increase in tempo, the beat toothpasted with arp(ing) sensations and glaring headlights. Its quieter Satie-like moments prised open in resplendent returns; wide spans of guitar milking the radiant sunlight of imaginary horizons and swoosie graduations needled in mousetrapped percussions, hand-clap snare-ations and glinting piano keylines, swimming to further sanctuaries to slam on recoveries of fuzztoned Neu! polish. Its electro-tribe hobgoblins leaving a glowstick of Picasso afterimages living it up in Colgate beams of optimism and a spangled, chilled sign off.

“Ingestion Syndrone” brings on further contrasts, butterflies churning a rude rasping of half-hitched hooks. A Russian doll of enveloped goodness parcel taping the tempo into jangling pockets on tight-fitted tailoring, bleeping buttons attacked in noisy insertions. LFO weepings held in jazz hands, noodling your noggin in robotically-wielding monks and whisk-battered Hancocks. An odd soup of preset abandon surface-skating fruity circuitries; a satisfying box of feet-shuffling frogs.

“Feminine Devastation” bleeds patternated dub and a certain acid fattness in the bassline, all foot-sliding hip slinkiness, a funky jigsaw scooping those smarting kisses of dustbin-lidded snap as jellied eels of guitar spike the sequential candy pulling at the clasps of its own reality. The excellently-titled “An Octopus In A Stringbag” signing us out on a skipping-rope of misshapenness that suddenly finds itself lunging a brief lounge mellowness before slipping unconsciously under the duvet.

But hold on, a craftily inserted download card reveals a cunning host of extra mixes that rearrange the EP’s scenery further — the belly dance of “Centre of the Universe” and the taupe-tapping centrics of Radio 9, Ben Glass‘s phasic coat-hangers — lingering numerical curves that pull and push the original like a pixilated ragdoll.

-Michael Rodham-Heaps-

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