Dionysius lurks in the drunk, slurred speech of Tujiko Noriko's irrational
electronic bleating. Noriko's raspy voice is stretched like a rubber band, darting
from playful conversational tones to muffled shrieks while dirty beats, skirting
through dark alleyways of grimy ambiance and scarring sonic debris, are flung
about
like specks
of paint on a canvas. Most tunings are off-kilter, blurred by a wave of
reverb, which
makes every twisting arpeggio and pulsating beat appear as though it were
about to
topple over. The drowsy, shape-shifting textures coupled with the strangely
calm, gong-like pedal tones are unexpectedly seductive. As such, listening to Blurred
in My
Mirror is a sensuous experience; this is music to feel, not analyze.
Like an overgrown forest, swarming with dead branches and
tousled
trees, every nook and cranny of this album harbors something that will
surprise. One
gets the sense that the work's origins are familiar enough: subtle digital
processing slowly deconstructs high-pitched frequencies, sprinkles in a few loops or delays,
and drapes
sweaty throbs in swathes of ghostly, echoing noise. And yet, this being said,
it is the
organization and minor details that endow this work with some element of
distinction, as
in album opener "Niagara Hospital," where, after successive listens, one's ears
trip upon
a chilling, earnest piano motif brooding in the background.
There is an almost Dadaist methodology stirring in the precarious whims of
certain pieces. As a digital processor distorts and transforms pre-existing
sounds on "I'm Not Dreaming, King," the resulting chatter resembles rapid-fire
fiddle squeaks, punctuated by wheezing and snorting sounds. The at-times-boisterous drum patterns also have a fungal squelchiness that sounds like
marshmallows used as beaters. While the work has a certain guttural and
discordant quality, each piece is altogether accessible and capable of
eliciting vibrant emotions. Numerous pieces revel in pollutants, grit and
grime, tossed about in a tide of lost satellite signals that no longer convey
anything, while others are solemn and pervaded by sadness. On "Tennisplayer
Makes Me Smile," for instance, there is the chipped, gritty gurgle of
processed guitar that recalls Fennesz, as Noriko muses in a clipped chirp,
"All I ever wanted was everything/ All I ever got is cold." "Shayou," while
lashed at with wild noise, is tempered by fluttering, pastoral string scrapes
that evoke the image of trees swaying at night.
Songs may seem a trifle accidental or capricious, but from these plucked
guitars and oscillating, seething digital sounds sprout distinct forms that
glisten with a palpable sense of fun. Dionysian, indeed, Blurred in My Mirror
is pop music for the contemporary listener, an addictive narcotic that appeals
to fuzzy
dreams and frolicking fits of fancy.
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