The church-like drone that opens Cadu Tenório‘s stint on Blue Tapes lends a feeling of solace with just a hint of accordion japes in the tones. It is a reverential and gentle opening that unfolds slowly, infinite and flat like a coastal landscape, merging with the sombre greys of sea and sky, undulations that change features in miniscule ways.
A measure of hysteric electronic scorn is poured on, searing with sinister voices that chant, tortured and grim in the background. The cassette itself doesn’t give any indication as to tracks or titles (they do appear on the digital edition), so although there is the odd break here and there, the pieces just plough or ease into one another depending on the mood attempted. There are queasy beats with a dark, descending keyboard runs that are interrupted by fanatical motion. It moves in and out of destroyed surroundings, followed by a gaggle of unbelieving creatures; there is a sense of the Pied Piper at work in the skin-crawling vacuum.
There is a nod to Martin Rev in some of the darker soundscapes; a throbbing organ bed that drips its desperate notes in a memory of swirling industrial decline, the breeze tearing through creaking doors, busted hinges hanging them limply. It is kind of restless but tired, as if all it needs is welcome respite but is unable to settle. It is wide-eyed and wired but close to dropping, relentless in its shimmering evolution, passing through crushing distortion in the search for nirvana. Side two starts hypnotic but soporific,with a backwards heartbeat attempting to clear the air. There is a lightness in the touch of the drones and it never tires of lulling you with a late-night remedy for too much sleep. It won’t help you to sleep at all; if anything it will cause you to scamper into the nocturnal hum, frozen by shadows, seeking out visual echoes of days passed, A distant wail gives you unwelcome company, and things ebb and flow, the pieces tidal in nature, but imperceptible in their swallowing of your surroundings. Things again grow leaden and industrial: the clank and groan, the hiss and insidious creak of abandoned glory, terminally in decline with a little more static that invites the final run into the gaping void.-Mr Olivetti-
