Mere Mortals’ Purple Fire has taken 20jazzfunkgreats to a place we had not quite visited since the days of Cold Cave’s apex ‘Love Comes Close’, and Pictureplane’s Dark Rift: a diorama of life in a Western Civilisation that is subtly wrong in interesting, emotional ways.
One could speculate about the selection and ranking of social, economic and cultural drivers that brought us here – say, the persistence of the Soviet Union and its shadow spectre of nuclear oblivion, a fall in the costs of printing poetry, a persistent oil crisis constraining the urban sprawl, a failure in Moore’s Law, the development of a non-lethally addictive analogue for heroine, the cot-death of MTV, an extension of the voting franchise to 16 & 17 year olds.
We’ll leave that discussion for intellectuals and historians.
We know what brought us here. We told you already. Mere Mortal’s Purple Fire, and its oppressive pop blitzkrieg – a sloppy wall of sound crowned by synthetic barbed wire beyond which rise the spires & domes of a church of teenage angst, or perhaps a discotheque collapsing unto itself to the shrill beat of a machine-drum-gun, with us inside.
It is a party, & a revolution, & one Saturday night spent shopping for blood. It isn’t subtle, it isn’t premedited, but it sure is pretty in a way which things that haven’t been designed or embellished, but rather evolved, born & grown & fucked up are.
It is a product of its time, which is now, but somewhere else.