On each of their prior two albums, Scottish beard-rock quartet Aereogramme have
been a tough nut to crack, not least of all for the fact that their records
have, seemingly, been pitched at entirely the wrong crowd. Released on
Chemikal Underground in the UK and on Matador in the U.S., the combo
have been belting out their unique take on power-balladics to a bunch
of hipsters, none of whom — predictably — have quite been smitten
by a band whose metal-esque overtures slip from mournful post-rock moodiness
to balls-out black-metal screech, all recorded with a symphonic sheen
that makes their closest allies in the new not-really-metal-metal sweepstakes
Sigur Rós. Like the Icelandic wallpaperists, Aereogramme's prog-ish
spirit, symphonic flounce, and unrestrained grandiosity would play much
better to the long-hair'd crowds who've likely never heard of them; and Seclusion defiantly
proves it. Frontman Craig B has complained of having a cold on each of
their previous recordings, yet I have no idea whether it was clear or
clogged sinuses at play this time around, with his sinuous voice sounding
more nasal and sneering than ever, almost Placebo-esque on opening cut Inkwell.
It's a fairly non-dynamic-contrast-in-volume opening to this latest disc,
one which finds B's irregular un-emo angst taken to more grand degrees
than previous. The set is punctuated by "The Unravelling," an 11-minute
song in which Iain Cook's flickering programming leads the band on an
upward path, which escalates with stabbing strings and squalling guitars
until peaking at a discordant climax at about seven minutes in. From
there, the song reinvents itself over, female vocals littering tiny cryings
around a mournful middle, then soon stretches out into the lurching,
dirty bass that staggers to an epic/neo-prog-rockin' close that Tool
would be proud of. Later, they stick a knife through the hearts of any
indie-kids who might still be along for the ride by covering the Flaming
Lips' "Lightning Strikes the Postman" in a fashion recalling eggbeater
hair and dry ice, topped of with a nimble-fingered, fret-warping guitar
solo. At this point — of both the disc and the discography — Aereogramme
may still be confusing to many (maybe more than ever), but, really, their
particular, peculiar aesthetic is just becoming clearer.
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