Baths and his bitter-tasting highly-stimulating fungus cloud of sweat and dark-primitive, puke and pieces of skin and dejection, new album called Obsidian, released yesterday.
Any romance collectors with pockets full of Cerulean-sugar are likely to be worn out until a few attempts of this new voyage into sagging nighttime fevers. Any romance of words available here could only be filtered through and after several layers of realism and even then it would be hardly severed from a slightly dreadful essence of irony or surreality given its explicitly-put surroundings. The point is, Will Weisenfeld has come out with another fantastically sincere-feeling piece of work. He never seems to abuse his means of creation. His voice comes in, goes out, goes high, comes down, swoons, mutters and croaks, dances, it does all these things in the right places. In this particular instance of album, he builds some dark-looking places, cages, bodies and processes, he drenches his memory in a slightly musty, slightly bitter fluid; a concoction of repeating drums, pounding bass and a mesh between synthetic and piano keys, metallic sounds, sounds that cynically progress in shapes like scowling frameworks of face. It’s not that he sounds miserable, far far from it, in fact the album offers particular moments, if you listen along, where it feels like everything’s really satisfying and bright and hope – the chorus of Ossuary, the refrain of Ironworks, the break in early Phaedra, the whole of Inter; all reminders of some possibility of genuinely beautiful beauty, but these hopes are like grass sprouting in the cracks between profound slabs of shit we don’t want to stomach. The grass just offers some contrast, gives us some perspective on an artist throwing up some imaginations, some sick, and the sick arranges in the form of a human portrait which we can all appreciate to a great extent, albeit with slight unease.
Track 7: Baths – Phaedra
Track 5: Baths – Incompatible
Track 10: Baths – Inter
To like this album as I do so much so far is to feel like relieving, savouring, loving, loving the heart of hopelessness. Loving an album on a par and of same good-pop-sounding sub-species as Give Up by The Postal Service, but instead a lot more weird fresh pleasure from the gruesome and the poignant and the realistic. Hopelessness to cover these summer evenings in a cloud of incomprehensible bitterness. The lyrics that, on their average, express a kind of dejected confusion. To feel like I can almost control this dejected essence by listening to the album when I feel like it is something so good. I would recommend you to buy it.
or Stream the whole album save this short-sighted insight.