Tuesday, August 17, 2004

Spektrum spike the money shot

“Name me the final number, the highest, the greatest.”
“But that's absurd! If the number of numbers is infinite, how can there be a final number?”
“Then how can you speak of a final revolution? There is no final one. Revolutions are infinite.”
(Yevgeny Zamyatin, We, 1920)

Like the glass homes of Zamyatin, west London band Spektrum construct transparently attractive sounds within the crystalline confines of electronica and auto-digestive funk. Don't get them wrong – live drums, both types of electric guitar and the sweeping vocal agitation of Lola Olafisoye are present and satisfyingly incorrect – this is the fusion German art-dance label Playhouse was born to pursue (down one side).

The sonic fulmination evolves within the average post-ecstasy attention span (though my mate moaned about their ending the best passages abruptly – a deliberate tactic) and climaxes to fundamental appeal: sex and death right there on the stage and propagated in the shared air of the pseudo-Factory angularity of the Notting Hill Arts Club. A reluctant solidarity offered in the basement of free market capitalcityism.

A prawn has its stomach behind its eyes – our visions are backed by our brain; look and think, there is nothing ultimate about time and Spektrum give a strutting nod toward endless creativity.

Despite some ill-advised bawling about Talk... (stop right there) from this helmet, Spektrum dispatch trite influence guessing games and replace tired mimesis with familiar arousal.

By the time a home arrived, I was coming air.

Leo at creams74 at hotmail.com
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