That old adage “you can’t judge a book by its cover”, should really be something like, “judge a book by its cover at your own caution.” Of course we’re all constantly making snap judgments about everything from the way people dress to how we think some future situation might be. It’s just that remaining stubbornly attached to this false knowledge, might cause one to miss out on something great.
Case in point: I’ve known of the Fuck Buttons for some time but had never got around to checking them out because, for some wrong-headed reason the name - though admittedly great - conjured images of middle-of-the-road, dance/rock (I like some of that stuff, just not enough to go out of my way for it).
Well about a month ago I was eating lunch with a friend who started talking about them. And what he was describing was nothing like the idea I had in mind.
So, on the strength of that conversation, I ended up grabbing Street Horrrsing and was like “holy shit!” My friend had been right. Instead of tired indy, electro-rock clichés the Buttons (Andrew Hung and Benjamin John Power) sound was raw and noisey with a delightfully punky fuck-you-ness to . All mangled guitars, contorted vocals and squalls of feedback melded into solid edifices of exquisite frequencies.
And, as it just so happened they had a brand new album out. Oh, and it was produced by Andrew FUCKING Weatherall!
For this second release, they've refined the sound (as bands often do) - softening the edges slightly with the addition of synthesized textures - but not, thankfully, at the expense of the gritty noisiness that is their raison d’être. It's a sound that lies somewhere between the drones of Tim Hecker, My Bloody Valentine‘s wall of harmonic distortion and the rhythmic pulse of Berlin-style techno.
Tarot Sport is programmed in a very similar manner as its predecessor – with a sprawling progressive opening piece, that twists and morphs and eventually segues into a much shorter of kind of interlude.
Opening salvo, Surf Solar, begins with some flickering metallic pads before these creepy pitched-up, Exorcist-style atmospherics come crawling in. The ambiance, which lasts a full two minutes, is finally cracked by the introduction of methodical thwumping kick drums and then split wide open by a filthy serrated lead. The track builds and builds from an initial hiss to a growl to a full throated roar - stretching out to over ten minutes before dissolving into a malaise of static-y white noise.
Emerging from this sonic dust-cloud is Rough Steez, a strange mix of hypnotic rhythm and jarring sounds – its arpeggiating buzz-saw synths and mechanical squelches seem to float unnaturally over a shifting foundation of clickidy-clack percussion.
I’m really liking the decision to incorporate club elements as backbone for much of this album. The skeletal beats provide complimentary or at least neutral structures on which to drape the profusion of contrasting layers and textures which make up the compositions. This technique is exemplified in the hauntingly savage beauty of Space Mountain where simultaneously diametric streams - of melody and distortion; harmony and noise - cascade in every direction.
Hung and Power deserve credit, having beaten the odds by successfully following up a great album without merely repeating themselves.
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