It’s not, it’s space rock, head nod grooves with a shot in the arm of tribal funk that raises them far out of the dirge zone. It’s weirdly dancey but only in the same way as machinery is when you’ve done lots of drugs. This project is the work of one man, Gioele Valenti, and he layers all the instrumentation into a mantric haze of tribal guitar riffs with distant choral choruses. But that’s only a tiny part of what Juju are up to. Comes with a booklet telling the whole story.Īnd, as if to prove you can never get away from Suicide, they are certainly among the musical seasonings present on the third album from Sicilian psyche-rock act Juju. Without it, your life is void and you might as well give up on music (which is to say, spend your days listening to Ed Sheeran, Snow Patrol, et al). “Johnny”, “Girl”, “Che” and, of course, the groundbreaking ten minute murder meltdown that is “Frankie Teardrop”, a notoriously disturbed song. Every track hums with revolving keyboard motifs while Vega’s vocals sound alternately broken, urgent and psychopathic. New Yorkers Martin Rev and (the now late) Alan Vega combined primitive synth riffs with rock’n’roll songwriting and a before-it’s-time churlish punk attitude to create seven songs that brook no argument, providing ideas for tens of thousands of bands that would follow their multiple leads. Suicide’s 1977 debut is essential to any record collection. It’s one of the ten best albums ever made. What to say about this one? It’s one of the only albums that has retained a constant presence on my record players since I first heard it in the mid-Eighties. Hugely original, Qasim Naqvi’s latest is a fascinating odyssey into originality and the unknown. Side B contains the title track which is initially an exercise in tone music, then gurgles its way back to what Side A was up to, only now the robots have formed their own church and are imagining hymns, prior to taking off in a helicopter for the grand finale’s return to the tone palette.
#Uplift spice memento android#
Amidst this strange, bubbled soundscape, slivers of melody flit about like android silverfish. The album totters along like an army of tiny robots who’ve lost their way in a forest of iron filings, their demagnetized brain circuits skittering as they quietly lose consciousness. Teenages, latest album from New York drummer, film composer and electronic musician Qasim Naqvi is a freakish collection of squelchy abstracts that creak, wibble, crackle, fritz, pop, bubble, squonk and glitch. This time there’s everything from grunge to soul to trap to Qawwali and a whole lot more most of us never imagined could exist.