The opener is meaty, elasticised basslines wrapped in kicking drum folds, the guitar caterpillaring plenty of shimmering scenery, traction for a heliumed goblin of vox. A super-tight jigsaw whose balance is temporarily upset by a tempo flick knife into vocals that don’t quite gel until repetition shape-shifts a rescue plan.
“Bella Hopp” keeps the momentum going with its cartwheeling guitars (Schickert seems to be casting them in multiples). A solid carpet of drums nailing the tempo, as speed-freak vocals pastiche an American Indian “haw, haw,” diverting into a murky noir of a chorus. Sliding lyrics to stage-stealing drums stickle-backing those figure eight shuffles of fret beautifully.
They definitely save the best for last though, as “Goa Constrictør” steals the show in 11 minutes of pure bliss, its pulsing core sounding like I wished Suicides‘ comeback should have: tense, full of nervous energy — the Ziguri trio taking it into Gong “Master Builder” territory with Sufi chanting that could be Daevid Allen Euterpe(ing) away. All the while that rhythmic candy head-drilling a delicious insistence, the odd cymbal kiss releasing an arc of vivid Schickert as the drums square root the equative powers, threading them onto a curve of glistening metallic that leaves me all Oliver Twist-like. More please!!!-Michael Rodham-Heaps-
