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His Name Is Alive

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Forget any preconceived notions about His Name Is Alive and Warren Defever and sit back and enjoy an entertaining conversation and performance. We talked about 4AD, Brothers Quay, noise, the stupid music press, and getting pictures taken at 6am! The band are on tour right now supporting Low and it's not worth missing for anybody who either once was a fan or is finally coming around to them.


The Eye: Video of the Day


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Review of the Day

Metalux, "Waiting for Armadillo"
M.V. Carbon and J. Gräf make noise that is slow, consumptive, and jello-thick and their method of ear-shattering is unique enough to make them stand out among a sea of amateur feedback wankers. Keyboards stretch and rattle like whale blubber waving in the wind and sonic whines break the sound barrier in an attempt to reach light and break it, too, but through all the chaos and unchecked sludge is that hint of intention and arrangement that helps everything make sense. Metalux might have one foot in the out-of-control world of schizophrenic sound construction, but the other is firmly planted in the calm and cool realm of careful preparation. After turning up their aggression they consider the variety they've presented, look it over like some hellish Frankenstein made from the bones of destroyed drum kits and nuclear guitars, and they craft it into rolling lines of synthetic bubbles and purring sex kittens. Carbon and Gräf open up noise and reveal under it the comedy of failing sounds; there are bloody llamas and pliant animals to be found on this record. There's always a strange kind of beauty here that reminds me of why noise can be so great. Take the overdriven guitar of "Splinter and Shimmer" for example: distortion, super-indulgence, and complete disregard for listener health has never sounded so lovely. The witch-like moan and screech of the vocals on this track slip around the pure fucking animalistic drive of the guitar and the painful screech of electronics so perfectly, it's a surprise that more individuals haven't tried this approach (it seems ripe for theft and overuse). Metalux let it carry on for just long enough and don't bother using it again—it's an addictive piece of songwriting that only increases with each listen. In other places the record is almost danceable as drum machines pound away steady rhythms, alternating between bass hits and persistent snare crunching. The noise that moves over it and the sometimes fascist ramblings of the vocalist create the kind of fear that only an epileptic thrust suddenly into a disco bash could feel. "Airplane" and "Flexi-Armadillo" fit this bill well, but there aren't just a few styles on this album. Nearly every song is unique and still Waiting for Armadillo sticks together more cohesively than rock opera. "Rode West" sounds like it belongs in some world filled with secretly perverted clowns and "Mexico" might as well be put in every raver's CD player as a means of terminally destroying their ability to dance and think. Both of them sound as though they were crafted from the same twisted brain and both serve the greater purpose of lifting Waiting for Armadillo far above the usual onslaught of pummeling sound and into another dimension occupied only by itself. 


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