Low Jack delivers a work bubbling with angst and aggression where only the barest pinpricks of hope are audible.
The age of choice has been with us for the last decade. Almost everything is now available. Thai tapas screen wiped to Stalin’s private letters circa 1937. This avalanche of possibility can be as overpowering as an open sewer, but it has allowed for electronic music to foster an amazing amount of variety. The once untouchable, or undiscoverable, past is now as crystal clear as the present. Synth wave, industrial, EBM, Chicago house, Dutch techno, Hungarian proto-jazz, everything is available now. Influences are no longer limited to what your local record store has, the only limits are those you choose. This open access has permitted artists to develop sounds that are anchored in past and present, to cherry pick vinyl history and melt it with their own. Low Jack comes from this place of plurality. His releases for L.I.E.S., Trilogy Tapes and In Paradisum saw a spread of styles fried, fricasseed and finally fondued. Returning to the French capital, Low Jack is back at his sonic craft for the Parisian imprint with Sewing Machine.
Percussion may be a friend of Low Jack’s but god knows he doesn’t treat his pals well. Rhythms are taken outside and given a proper hammering. Snares are left swollen, basslines bloated after a battering they’ll not soon forget. Static oozes from open wounds, tortured tones shadowing backdrops. There are electronic experiments with victims as with the curdling shriek of “Pocket Pussy.” Drum machines are assaulted time and time again. A steady pulse tethers “Zaltan’s Jackets” to the radiator while a bat is taken to this fearful 4/4 floor mutant. And this is what Sewing Machine creates, not just the threat of violence but actual violence. “Sweatpants Chick” punches, punches and punches, leaving speakers little more than a bloody pulp. What seeps through the demonic distortion, the overarching ache, could not be described as melodic; instead a caustic by-product weeps through. A harmony even harsher than the beats that support it.
Sewing Machine is an album of horrifically honest music. Mechanics are laid bar, the nuts and bolts glorified before being abused beyond recognition. The grandson of industrial music, and he’s not at all pleased. Low Jack delivers a work bubbling with angst and aggression where only the barest pinpricks of hope are audible.
Sewing Machine is available on In Paradisum.
