Those moving sidewalks in the airport, they lull you in to the point where even the real speed world around you seems slow motion; close your eyes, and it’s like you’re not even moving at all. Imagine, then, someone’s grasping the end of the sidewalk and gives it a virulent yank, jarring your consciousness back to reality, casting you in the air, suspended, as the world around you all of a sudden appears to be move warp speed.
This is like that. You’ve settled into the drone and slow, howling crescendo, like the drawn out yawn of a wooly mammoth, when nearly 90 seconds in, a yowl pulls the rug from under you. Perhaps you’ve been saved from inattentatively falling into the abyss; you’ll be sure to continue your travels forward with utmost alertness.
It’s a special gift to make you want noise. Noise, not music, a colossus built of grinding, knocking, wily whipping, and gauzy murmurs. You might consider music as next-level noise; this has you reconsider that sequence. Your senses strain to peer beneath the canopy, through the sheets to grapple the words; you squint so hard you’re no longer looking outward, but inward, finding all those wisps of thought in your own head that fight to claw out from your own din.
Scale the walls and toe the delightfully salacious edge of Fanpage’s clamorous explorations; the Stockholm unit’s debut Trip EP available on limited edition cassette and via download.
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