| Format: | LP |
| Availability: | Out of stock |
Sliding between the bodies in the street, cutting across the contrails that bisect our sky, Wand find melody and the anxiety beats as they hum the soundtrack for a new gravitational center. Seeking connections against the plan of niche interest and anonymity, Vertigo is the sound of slippage, rocks of contradiction (in soft focus); feet lost, regained, lost again, a multi-chromatic swaying, more automatic, associative, directed, in time.
...tick tock, rappa tap tap, glitch bloop ’n roll — here come ol’Wand back, they’re coming down slowly. The denser they get, it appears, the simpler they fly. And now . . . five years after a Laughing Matter, baby — who are “Wand” this time? With Vertigo, what hath Wand spawned?
It’s multichromatic, that’s for sure, but its too soon to tell, we’re too close to see. The way cells are replaced and all new again? That’s it. Now they are ten and all new again (see Ganglion Reef, 2014), but in the sample set of the time between — this time/the time of the quintet Wand of late, of Plum and Laughing Matter — they’ve undergone the complex -2+1 dimensional restructure, coming out a quartet (Evan Backer, Evan Burrows, Robbie Cody, Cory Hanson). Two original members, if you’re keeping a chart. We’re not judging you!
So, new-ish, in new ways anyway. But don’t . . . the new Wand’s built upon the exalted altars of old. There’s flashes of sentiment and tension, nudity and evasion, theatrical elevation, giant pieces chunked throughout alongside little bits of things. Allowing for slippage, it’s all one: the far horizon drawn in, nearer than ever before, allowing the chance for greater integration, if you stay open. And so they did. Vertigo is the sound of feet lost, regained, lost again, equilibrium in soft focus, a swaying feeling, more automatic and associative: in time, direct.
Determining to work backwards (or at least insideout) this time, Wand recorded everything in their own studio; pieces cut from improvisations and reshaped, writing from within the performance, without the woodshed. Unconsciously, in the shadow of themselves, and turning round and round (and round), they kept finding that empty space and playing what it implied. Everybody took on a new position in addition to the old one. It was intuitive, strangely ego-less . . . going somewhere they’d never been and not knowing what they were doing, but committing and recommitting, unafraid to eject in a constant positive forward momentum.
Listen: it’s like folk music for children, with synthesizers and other crap. Raw details with a lush velvet backing. Hear the articular evidence granular within the jams as it flows.
Just slip it on and hope to become one with the landscape?
You were anyway.
Hoping to listen and, more and more, feel less and less?
Naw.
Wand are funneling energy, pitching space your way — more like to stand your hair on its toes with every verse-chorus. Pulling on segments of infinity, boiled down and resequenced, they’ve devised their own dream gear to drive the old moterik into wide open space, in atmospheric reverb, on perma-globular drift. In stereo. A pulpy SLiCE of the collective contradiction; the songs slide cuts of genus and genii, captured beatscape and soundtrack, found melody on anxious rock beats pulled into the ether and spurt back out again — pretzeled and more — into a new gravitational center, sewn together by tongues. And propagated by more, as you commence to sing along.
Looking back, everything was improvisation. Vertigo was inescapable. But what music did await!
