10.18.10 - 12:28pm
Kid Shirt wrote a great bunch of splurt about this record here.
In fact I’m going to quote it in full here:
I AM THE NON- CANONICAL KID SHIRT
Saturday, October 16, 2010
NOCHEXXX: “RITALIN LOVE”
If Nick’s twelve seems to play around with ideas of spiritual / technological attenuation, signal drift, futures-past, faded love-affairs with / hatred for The Machine (whilst also suggesting possible strategies for boosting the signal and re-establishing contact – restarting old dialectics and making The Ghost solid once more – without resorting to full-on nostalgia or squirm-inducing Hauntophilia), then Dave’s twelve comes to the table (the dancefloor? the bed?) from the opposite side of the Man-Machine interface and reminds us of what it could once do when it was all domesticated and tamed back in the Futurity-embracing 80s – when the Fonkmaschine was still a benign and sexy idea and CCTV only existed in Cabs videos and we’d let the music grab us by the short n wiggly quarter-inch jacks and its guidance-system would make sure our pelvic phallodonics were nicely lubricated n ready for a bout of zero-G post-human luuuurve. Baby.
My, what a long sentence.
Nochexxx reccids’re are misshapen, hairy, leery, squirty, shiney, chunky, hunky, squeaky, drunken, smiley, lumpen, bumpy, (cont. page 94). He turns strut into a syncopated lager-stagger (and vice versa); his beats sound like bones swivellin’, drunken muscles flexing, like a mechanised digestive-system squirting a mix of acid n enzymes into a bolus of musical chyme; he inverts The Fonk, The Jack, The Schwing into something more… willfully slap-happy and haphazard – there’s a gleam in his eye; a glint of cheek; but he’s a romantic at heart, really…
On “Ritalin Love” he ramps up the rude noises, the parps and the phat, rumpy-pumping bass. The snares sound like a slapped arse. It sounds awesome on vinyl. I don’t envy any DJ who plays this record: they look up from their instamatic-mix-beat-counter, only to find that Essex has turned into West Hollywood. There’s a parade – an infinite limbo-line stretching through 4-dimensions (back and forward in Time simultaneously) – marching past the DJ-booth: Fonk-Freaks and She-Things with different-length’d legs, hands on each other’s hips, swaying like land-locked sailors limping on their pegs, as they stagger-dance past the DJ – an endless parade of physically-remixed extras from old colour-saturated Peech Boys promo-films waving neon-tubes, wearing lurid woolen leg-warmers over unshaven legs, a sackcloth-and-ashes dress from Patsy Climate tm, zircon-studded headbands, just beggin’ you to get it on, baby, one last time….
“There But For The Grace of God Go I…”
“And I knoooooow,” sing-says a sample-that-knows-it’s-a-sample (it’s a sad sample, see? Sad samples always know they’re just samples trapped on a hard-drive, on a reccid), “Whoooooo gets your love….” And it’s heartbreaking to hear it talk like that; it’s like an old flame asking for one last chance. A regret entombed in an 8-bit waveform.
In one way, Dave’s and Nick’s records are strangely similar in that they both allow the Past to access the Present; they let the Dead draw breath again and look at the world with fresh, newly-grown eyes.
Both these records are the musical equivalent of breaking The Fourth Wall. Unlike – and let’s try and be truthful about this rather than unnecessarily cruel – so many contemporary artists who produce work that’s merely a form of sonic re-enactment; puppeteers who just put old tropes through their paces again and pass xeroxes off as Spontaneous Generation or Oujia-Board conjuring – but here, here I get a sense of Music Wanting To Be heard Again, of Musician-Producer-as-Conduit, of voices-from-the-other-side willing themselves back to life.
Life loves Life. The universe rebuilds itself from peco-second to peco-second; newness springs constantly from collapse, from Quantum Uncertainty, from Death. The Past inhabits us; our nervous-systems are like antennae. The Dead speak to us; they force our hand, force us to make them new again. Old forms and cultural themes perpetually rise within us like dormant viruses.
I don’t care it you don’t get that, or don’t hear what I’m hearing. It’s not important.
I’m not a critic, just a listener.
I believe in these things so that you don’t have to.
It’s my right to be wrong.
But this…this is on white vinyl, sucker.
And it’s nice to see somebody playing someone actually playing Dave’s music in a context other than, you know, in my room or on Dave’s teal speakers or whatever.