Upending your preconceptions, Datashock delve into some mellow Jon Hassell-esque tribalisms after a percussively-tight opener. A vibe that piranhas a Sunburned Hand Of The Man glow in softly furrowed percussion, fluting flux and squawking throats (and maybe the odd squeaky dog toy too).
Eight(ish) minutes in, a bass makes its presence known to a splattering of cheering, quickly followed by a violin that kilter kicks the snake in tasty zigzags. A neo-pagan sizzle, the sixteen-minute “Im Zuchtstall Der Existenzhengste” takes things to higher state of consciousness. It’s an album high that coaxes echoic, a swirling Brian Eno-esque bow-drawn affair slivery with glittery starlight and eastern alabasters. An unhurried saturation of sitar-like hues that cling nicely to the laurel crowned Saint Sebastian of the cover. These lovely smeary streaks of sax break in (like a demonic stretch of crows) lighting your mind up as the landscape becomes more percussive, hooked in spirals of chattering of birds. Yelping excitement and Loplop shivers toxicologically shard and hypnotically wave to this glorious gilt of melody that underpins, then sweeps across panoramically, blown on an eagling wah-engined burn.
A lurid explosion of marvellousness that’s followed by the twelve-minute “Spirituelle Enthaltsamkeit Im Sandwichverfahren” (a brilliantly spannered title) that lyrically sharks a darker path. A strange chew of minimalistic glisten. Dirgey and tactile, it tangents in tasty torques, a keyboarding intrigue stepped in the modular yawn of baby gulls. A delirium-licked flower gradually seduced by this repeated strum that’s all funereally funnelled, cross-cut and convened into a lonely singularity. “Schönster Gurkenschwan” lightens the tone in a ballerina-wrapped curve of teasing tentacles. This pulsing dichasium of swirling colours, a fluid chimera souring on reversing currents and churning spray, venomously torn up on the rocks, your psyche mauled by saxophoned spectres.As if holding a mirror to the previous tracks, aftermath “Marodierende Sachbearreiter Aus Teilzeit” is like a dronally shattered heart embalmed in light chants that psycho-actively lattice, peter out like a dying motor. A chilled shiver for “Halb Halb, Wie Ein Guter Kloß” to slow things down to a crawling conclusion. Twizzle its cocktail stick in your cranium as sparsely shot scenics mermaid an Amon Düül murmur, bulleting out a final tribal teeter before slipping into sweet oblivion.
Krauter Der Provinz is a prescription to be savoured.
-Michael Rodham-Heaps-
