If you’re of a delicate, Radio Two nature, may I politely recommend you steer clear of this album. It isn’t for you. I’m sure you’re lovely and mean well and under different circumstances we should get coffee.
Anyone left? Great stuff. Having got the kids to bed and closed the kitchen door, we can turn this magnificent noise right up and offend the neighbours. And the neighbours’ neighbours. Because Blanck Mass is back and not fucking about. If you knew Fuck Buttons, you’ll have an inkling about what is coming up.
‘Death Drop’ is all you need to know about what follows. Its manic urgency could accompany the darkest Chris Cunningham video, if this aural best-kind-of-assault isn’t enough for you. Leading seamlessly into the euphoria of ‘House v House’, an arms aloft banger and one-way ticket to early 90s field-based good times; I’m already pissed off at the youth of today for not being off their teeth (on energy obvs) in a circle of Vauxhall Novas, Fiesta SR2s and whatever else we drove/stole back then.
Seven minutes of pure joy melts into ‘Hush Money’, my track of the album. Its a mid-record Sunday comedown (off of energy, obvs) which doesn’t give you the slightest chance of collecting yourself before ‘Love Is A Parasite’ pushes you back up into a cloud-level high.
‘Creature/West Fuqua’ and ‘No Dice’ start to close the record with a stunning and comparatively ambient calm before ‘Wings of Hate’ temporarily destroys whatever is left of your inner ears.
Get me back in a car park or field with a pocketful of energy. Or, as I’m too old for all that, Blanck Mass’s show at Clwb Ifor Bach in December will have to do. Merry Loud Christmas everyone from what’ll be in my top five albums of 2019.
Words by Lisa Whiteman.
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