GONE BALD

Exotic klaustrofobia

CD, narrowminded

The label might be called narrowminded but their release-policy sure isn’t. If you, like me, only knew them from their great Psychon-album “apocalypse has been dubbed …” then you’d wonder what a band like Gone Bald was doing there. That is, if you, like me, are still inclined to see labels standing for a certain kind of music, and when they change get disappointed, which is sort of dumb, but I can’t help it. I need markers and flagpoles like that to get through a life as complex and dangerous as this unharmed. And, of course, you should, like me, already know who Gone Bald are, and their entrance into my life, via their record on Interstellar “Soul vacation in rehab clinic”, made me know them and never forget. Now how would the psychedelic neo-kraut-avant-whatever fit the crunchy, psychotic and moist noise rock of Gone Bald? The answer is easy: not at all. And it doesn’t have to because there is actually no connection between them, so let’s get rid of all that shite and turn to the music.

A lot has happened in the meantime. They have added gentle parts and well-structured interesting almost experimental parts to their full hands-on noise-rock approach. They spend more time on the subtle tones between the notes or what sounds their guitars can make except being punched straight through the room. But, and this is the important part to note, they haven’t left any of the massive punch behind they showed on their first album. For instance, the first track “past vs. present vs. future” rips right through six minutes of heavy crunchy noise rock, while the second track “when winds begin to sing about our troubled world” takes its time to explore some drawn out harmonizing of a near psychotic reaction, or something. “Ghost Ship” on the other hand, is an almost traditional indie-punk song, and since the voice reminds me of the hardpressed, raw vocals of Tommy Strange or Guy Kyser, I’ll compare this track to The Emmas and Thin White Rope without blinking (both bands are no more, were rather unkown but good, so who cares.) And by some strange coincidence “Ghost Ship” might just be my favourite song on this record.

There have been some line-up changes and changes of location, which might be the reason for this change, but then again, who knows. Now it is three guys calling themselves Razorblade Jr, Stanley Disko and Bubba de Vries, and this time I have the same prejudices against monikers that I always have: in a few years time you’re gonna regret that stupid idea. Just like tattoos. Just ask me, I am stuck with a dumb name and an even dumber email-adress, but I was young and I didn’t know better. (But at least I don’t have a tattoo (because I could never decide on a design…)). An excuse hardly viable for a band now going into its tenth year of existence.

This is no hippie shit, even if the title track is almost epic in size. Over 15 minutes of blowing out, and I mean literally, because within all the slowly unfolding melee and structured chaos horns of all kinds start to creep up. You’ll rarely find that with a regular noise band. This track starts with a little siren and then some drum/bass/guitar-stuff that you would find on any post-hardcore-record, but while the DJ turns towards the toilets to release pressure that has built up, Gone Bald go their own path, following the interferences and screeches of a distorted electric guitar. Then the whole thing slows down, with saxophone and piano to an laid back, simple jazz(?) piece. And when the trumpet starts to mingle into the dance the whole thing goes over the top into what might be the first true free jazz piece I have heard in a long time, which rises and heaves like the tide, but ends really tight again. Great stuff.

Maybe that, after all, is the true connection to Psychon’s approach towards music: no boundaries. Whatever happens is okay and bound to happen. Like it or not, the natural evolution of a musical piece can’t be stopped anyway and if you try, you’ll only get constipation, migraine and the wish to snort coke amidst a flock of underage groupies in the dressing room of Top Of The Pops wearing a silly stage costume. If you want to avoid that, get exotic klaustrofobic.

P.S.: The cover is by someone who obviously really likes Daniel Clawes. I do too, so it is okay, methinks.