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Incendiary Magazine

Out Of Control (review)

Published: October 14, 2013
Tags: esc.rec.40, Press


Weerthof – Out Of Control
Review in Incendiary Magazine:

When it comes to formulating your response to music, to choosing what you want to write about, there are times where you have to take a deep breath and shut down, to attempt not to focus, to see past the welter of nonsense thrown at you; you have to dismiss all the pretend whacky, pseudo-serious, nakedly ambitious or just thick attempts to get your attention. In the case of this EP I’m really glad I got past the prose. I mean, forget all the usual instrumental hoops releases like these make the poor reviewer jump through – forget trying to work out what a fucking daxophone or a pvc pipe sounds like or how to best describe their noises; just consider this, consider that if you really, really like this EP, you can, as a token of your affection, buy a WOODEN usb stick, and not only that, a wooden usb encased in a bar of soap… what new form of culturally elite inanity will we be presented with next? The mind doesn’t boggle, it just closes the door, whimpering and praying for release from other people’s good intentions.

A picture may be forming in your minds of something so whacky that it’s either irrelevant as a listen, or a cultural object so far up its own arse you will need an industrial plunger to dislodge it. You’d be wrong; I want to make clear that this is a great record; daft, spiky, silly and possessing the sort of sure-footed approach that only great pop music possesses. This is pop; even if it things like Awaken Scrape plays with the same old sonic tricks that Faust did on The Faust Tapes, or Toothbrush Tune and Aerial Allegretto have a feel of the sort of breezy fun Spike Jones and His City Slickers would have attempted back in the day. Pantoffle Skiffle even comes on a bit like Belgium’s Loden. It’s also far too short as a listen to get irritated by it, and like an early morning cuppa it brings you round, gives you a bit of focus and, weirdly enough hope. Hope. Now there’s a pretentious thought…

Richard Foster

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