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Among other things, the New York City-based space rockers White Hills will give any stereo system a workout by pushing the limits of acceptable sonic distortion, sort of like a proving grounds for aural integrity. Unabashedly loud, and progressing with a massive wall-of-sound approach, this album tenders a psycho-rock brew tinged with thrashing guitar licks amid a few nods to Sonic Youth, or Pink Floyd on steroids.
The magnum opus is the fifteen-minute closer, "I Write a Thousand Letters (Pulp on Bone)." With a spattered Ravel "Bolero" underpinning, the musicians summon hideous environs via swarming electronics and guitarist Dave W's maniacal psychedelic riffs, the band transmitting imagery that invokes a day of reckoning type outlook.
Roaring drums impart a haunting, cyclical rhythmic force atop cascading layers of distortion-laced, sound-shaping maneuvers to culminate a program that conveys a take no prisoners mindset. Ultimately, White Hills is a unit that merges the old and new with a distinct framework, perhaps alluding to social breakdowns or global upheaval. Play it at your own risk.
Personnel: Dave W: guitar, vocals; Ego Sensation: bass; Antronhy: treatments, synths, backup vocals; Nick Name: drums.
I love jazz because it's so different than pop and has an emotional pull that other music does not have.
I was first exposed to jazz when I saw Dave Brubeck in 1974.
The first jazz record I bought was Bitches Brew by Miles Davis.