skip to main |
skip to sidebar
Storsveit Nix Noltes sit somewhere in the murky peripheries of that ill-defined genre ‘world music’, a brush with which lazy hacks tar those artists who exist outside of Camden. This is definitely true of Reykjavik’s finest purveyors of traditional Bulgarian folk music, whose latest album sees its UK release courtesy of venerable indie stalwarts Fat Cat. The 11-strong Storsveit (or ‘big-band’) feature some key alumni from Iceland’s indier-than-thou fraternity, not least Múm keyboardist Kristín Valtýsdóttir. Balkan-tinged indie has been en vogue for some time (see Zach Condon’s Beirut or Gogol Bordello’s gypsy-punk) however none could accuse the staunchly traditional Storsveit of jumping on any such bandwagon. Upon first listen Royal Family – Divorce explodes as an impenetrable torrent of mathematical orchestral noodling. However, as one’s lazy western ears adapt to the Slavic racket the tight, focused musicianship and intricate melodic interplay become evident. Storsveit weave effortlessly through complex, almost polyphonic, textures in their zealous pursuit of Balkan authenticity. The album plays out like the soundtrack to some raucous Romany barn dance, with the bombast at times becoming rather overbearing (see: chaotic opener Wedding Rachenitsa). Other moments allude more towards the post-rock heritage of the collective’s other ventures, as in the gloriously static ridden trumpet tirade of Cetvorno Horo. Indeed, the driving percussion and rickety orchestration of album highlight Elenska Rachenitsa is reminiscent of a more succinct A Silver Mt. Zion. It is in these moments of more cohesive composition that Storsveit touch on something special, a quality far removed from many of Royal Family – Divorce’s ramshackle folk ditties.
Once again, this glorious piece is published today in Bristol Universities Epigram.
A decade since their formation, Japanese post-rock dinosaurs Mono release their fifth full length recording, their first since the widely championed You Are There in 2006. Evidently, ten years on the job and Mono have made some friends, with the line-up expanded here to accommodate a 23-piece orchestra, but with production duties remaining in the safe hands of long time collaborator Steve Albini. Regrettably, Hymn to the Immortal Wind finds Mono in something of a midlife crisis; less new sports car, more new symphony orchestra. The music reeks of an ageing band alluding towards maturity through “complex” arrangements and thick symphonic textures, but invariably ends up drowned in neoclassical pomp and faux sentimentality. The sledgehammer drums, piercing guitars and exciting dynamics of One Step More and You Die are largely gone, replaced with slow burning melodies and string-drenched crescendos, some of which would be more at home accompanying the emotional climax of The Lion King. At times, this more understated approach manifests itself in glorious consonance (the thrilling finale of Burial At Sea), but these moments are diluted by mostly obvious chord progressions and overbearing orchestration. The spark of Mono does, however, remain, and at times breaks through the turgid Rachel’s-esque texture to yield some of the ferocious intensity which Mono are famed to exhibit live. A case in point is the stunning album highlight Pure As Snow (Trails of the Winter Storm), a brooding eleven minutes of delicate guitar interplay and driving percussion which provide a stark reminder of Mono’s phenomenal grasp of melody and timbre. Thankfully, these moments of pre-eminence save Hymn to the Immortal Wind from getting lost in its own pomposity, and Mono continue on their post-rock pilgrimage unscathed. Mono play The Croft in Bristol on 25th March.If you would prefer to read this review in the physical domain, pick up a copy of this month's Epigram.
