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Written by Jonathan Dean
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Sunday, 26 September 2004 |
Beta-Lactam Ring
This is the debut full-length album for Whitelodge, a trio ensconced
deep in Florida's panhandle, an area known for mosquitoes, extreme
humidity and torrential rains, an area recently attacked by a series of
forceful hurricanes. These extremes of nature seem to have exerted an
influence on Whitelodge's music, moving as it does through seasonal
movements: the hazy, psychedelic buzzing of summer insects, the golden
autumnal harvest, the skeletal frost of winter; and the rebirth of
pastoral springtime. The lyrics are fraught with references to earth
and the elements, and the soundworld of each song is alive with
atmospherics to match the poetic imagery. And despite the innocuous
magickal temple invoked by the band name, there are deep undercurrents
of darkness and unrest lurking in the underbrush. Whitelodge are
clearly indebted to that outcropping of English esoteric psychedelia
that includes Current 93 and Death In June, but their geographic and
generational differences from their progenitors position them in unique
territory. Instead of filtering their inspirations through the
post-industrial milieu that those earlier bands were working in,
Whitelodge utilize more modern reference points like My Bloody
Valentine and Godspeed You Black Emperor. They add layers of
instrumental and textural sophistication to these elegiac songs of
isolation and melancholy, reveling in slowly percolating melodies and
layers of drones. The insistent strum of the acoustic guitar, lost in
cavernous echo, reminded me of the richly detailed sound of Death In
June's But What Ends When the Symbols Shatter.
Just to cement the comparison, Whitelodge even manage to incorporate
some Ennio Morricone steel guitar belts and the odd trumpet solo on a
few tracks. Singer Dustin Gilbert's voice is slow and restrained, and
on occasion (as in the spooky "Of Corridors and Time") his vocals are
processed and elongated into scary mutations. Occasional passages of
cheap vintage electronics and drum machine reminded me of early Pink
Dots, as on "Song For Kalyx," a hallucinogenic meditation on lost love.
Whitelodge's debut is the sort of record that is so subtle and nuanced,
it's likely to be completely lost amidst the overpopulated indie scene,
which is regrettable, to say the least.
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