This man’s been with me for ages, through the ludicrously brief existence of Rema Rema, the equally short lived Mass (their “F.A.H.T.C.F.” is still my ultimate cup-half-empty song) and then the constant outpourings as the The Wolfgang Press. Five studio albums that poked around in some satisfyingly gloomy, dark melodics and veered towards the dance-friendly, Allen’s vocals always thistling intrigue, inquisitioning the human animal to steely basslines and funky swerve.
Then in the mid-nineties, shortly after seeing The Wolfgang Press for the first time at London’s Jazz Café promoting their Funky Little Demons LP, he goes and cuts his tries with 4AD forever, to disappear into the sunset in grumpy disillusionment to my head screaming an infinitum of nooooooo.
Seriously thought that was it, then in 2005 he flipped in a surprise reappearance with dark ambient purveyor Giuseppe De Bellis as Geniuser, deploying a glorious downtempo(ed) album (for the Swedish label Phisteria) aptly entitled Black Mud. It had all the right ingredients, an album of shadowy soundscapes that seemed to peel back the scabs to chew on the sepsis below, years before the hyper-boiled bubble that was Burial glanced into the urban mirror darkly. Now they return, crowdfunding their way back into our attention with this pared-down morsel, all taut and propulsive, the odd choral curl majestically molesting Michael Allen’s baritoned authority.https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hKL1JL8xoXo
A festering disaffection, pulling at the wider picture. The multi-tracked vox limbering a wholesome cross-hatch, the nihilistic “Epiphany” ripping up the advertised dream. The crystalline bite of that Art Of Noise-like sample on “Je Suis Geniuser”, that Venus In Furs whip to them machined beats framing the exorcism perfectly, sharpening the senses for the words to flow out.The Scott Walker-esque “A Thousand Sorrows” providing a Tindersticks-like exit from the tension, before re-immersion. The slapped paragraphing and drooling charisma of “Monkey” giving me a satisfying reminder of that birdwoodcage churn. The body heat of “Man Of Sand” itchy with swollen orperatics and kittering sparks. Giuseppe De Bellis has created a clear catalyst for Michael Allen’s roaming rhetoric.
The narrator delving, dividing, picking at the stitching of the self — the diving techno(isms) of “Disconnected”, Allen’s voice a bulleting vivisection, banqueting on his insecuritites. The lyricist pleading for you to look into his eyes on “Is It Me” to a warped jungle jutter. The last track leaving Allen a weathered pillar slowly roasted by this revolving rub of orchestration. “I am, I am” he states, drilling deeper with every repeat. “I’m questions, I am black heart, white skin”, until the all-consuming fade has the final answer.-Michael Rodham-Heaps-
