And o, the icy wind blows, so cold on the tip of my nose. And if it's
close to falling off I'm falling off this levee, tumbling down tundra
to where the beat-pop beatniks push push-beats and push down the
analog keys until the gurgle burbles up a warmth of bubble, their
toil and trouble the product of hard-working days spent bunkered down
in their Birmingham compound, slaving away at fashioning
densely-woven tracks in a fashion none have worn before. If you've
not caught any of the previous broadcasts from Broadcast, well, you
and your record collection should be consigned immediately to a world
of audio irrelevance. Your only repentance — to submit to my
mandate and consume, consumer, your very first signal of sound from
this transmitting beacon of the greatest pop-music you've never heard
(literally, of course), it being the kind of audio thing that gets
pants alarmingly moist. Now that I've got you all soaking wet, it's
time to just chill. Literally, of course, what with the cold and the
nose and oh the wind and the rain and the girl standing 'neath the
edge of the levee, singing in a voice that makes all those other
girls out front of bands look like cunts. I know her name is Trish
Keenan, not that Broadcast sleeves ever tell you that. They're a band
whose constituents seek not to be seen outside this Broadcast, a band
as whole, holy, so much so that they don't even need their names be
known, the individual values of their sum's integers not even worth
knowing, mathematically speaking. Although I'm sure they're all nice
people. Broadcast are band existing as band; the members' roles
within don't need to be defined for those on the outside, for they
are a unit, producing sound. Their third disc, Ha Ha Sound,
possibly doesn't live up to the impossible task of living up to its
predecessor, The Noise Made by People, but that's not like it
reduces its own value. This whole is a sum of 14 songs that adds up
to an estimable artistic much, the kind of album worthy of nestling
in for months.
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