The Big Pink got remixed by Gang Gang Dance, there. What begins like a psychedelic excursion of portent and wonder across paths strewn with the corpses of Beach Boys and other sunny Californian types, all of which shine in a very fluorescent grey flips, halfway through, into a vicious skank which is pure shoegazing voodoo, the result is a mesmerising trompe d’oeil where seemingly incongruous landscapes blend, dark tropical forests in whose shades shine wild eyes, strobes bouncing against the corrugated metal walls of an anonymous warehouse, epic moors illuminated by fragments of a full moon that break through the spidery shroud of wind-distorted clouds.
This will be available in their website in a couple of days, you should also check out the remixes by Van Rivers/Subliminal kid and Mount Kimble.
Patten’s Version is listening to Liquid Liquid while you await for the last tube at night, alone in the dishevelled platform but for something at the other end, close enough for you to be aware of its presence, too far to be able to distinguish gender, features of age, it is listening to Liquid Liquid as this something starts getting closer and the adrenaline kicks in, a thousand urban legends of psychotic headhunters and underground cannibal tribes queuing at the doors of the lizard brain sending electrified impulses all over a system that begins sweating, microscopical contractions of muscle and viscera heuristics of a subconscious plan first put into practice against a sabre-toothed tiger millennia ago.
You haven’t come a long way baby.
Version is the sound of the tube finally arriving, trembling lights that would feel like a horror film cliché if you weren’t the starring character, step in an empty carriage as your companion blurs at the other end, speed up into the night across shadowy wormholes with the wind howling and every single fixture rattling like a festival of the ghosts sharpening their knives, or Liars’ own death disco dub. Nothing will probably happen, but vicarious thrills such as these deserve a definitive holla.
Blank Dogs are the definitive US Invasion outfit- in the same way in which some 60s brits got totally wasted on R&B and electric instruments and by some brilliant accident of genius and teenage fearlessness came up with the stomping dance craze that would eventually become rock and roll, it is some American savants who now rummage hungry into the fascinating pile of debris of that wonderful car-crash that was post-punk and its melodic heir C-86, dig out shiny jewels and trinkets, reconfigure them with their awesome fuzzy sensibility and come up with something which is awesome and timeless, Under and Under, or their best album to date (out in In The Red), end outcome to inspire crazy kids over here to go down the second hand record shop and rediscover those original 7” their cool uncles used to headbang to down in the club or the DIY commune, what have you, everything is a cycle and we spin delighted.
If you want an example, check out Night Night, definitive classic of Great Wall of Sound Minimalism if there ever was one, sonic vomit never sounded this pretty, the Ronnettes caught in the Normal’s meatgrinder? Perhaps, a second-hand tape found in the midst of a crime scene of ink and blood and lipstick smeared in beautiful patterns over the once white tile reticles of a dingey toilette at the back of a condemned apartment flat, could have been recorded there too, it sounds so much closer and beautiful this way.