Waiting It Out

The cover photo alone tells you this is a potentially suicidal leap into the unknown. Whether the fall ends in salvation or annihilation depends entirely on the receptiveness of a pretty spoiled audience and a set of circumstances that could let the record land on fertile ground. After the first listen I was convinced that, following a moment of seeming pop-flavored enchantment and then a slide into mild depression and melancholic longing for the days of withered blossoms, it was time to take in the work as a whole. Seven full-blooded compositions stretching between an intro inspired by the film Sideways and an outro steeped in the humor of The Revenge Of Pink Panther make up the organic structure of a quality rock masterpiece. Fairly dry but raw, riff-driven guitar lines cut with the edge of a fine razor blade into the juicy flesh of massive, alternatively simple but punchy drums. The vocals are minimalist and recall the range of Jon Spencer’s bluesy explosion, and the track The Art Of Sideburns already reveals nearly all the main arguments they serve you raw between both ears. Rage is immortal, anger undying, and the critique of today’s mindless zombies drowns out the monotone echoes of pop recipes. Those are (thank God) chronically in short supply on this record, but there’s no shortage of intelligent sharpness and spiky hidden surprises. “It Took A Long Time To Find My Way To Oysters / It Took Even Longer To Cry Away From Them / Sometimes The Good Things Bring Out The Bad Things On Surface / And This Is How I Learned To Dive” sings Razorblade Jr. on the track Diving For Oysters, and it neatly sums up 15 years of searching for their own voice. There’s plenty of minimalism as well as epic emptying into your cranial vault, which makes the record anything but easy or relaxing listening. Rhythm changes and sonic dryness are the main constants of the record’s fairly simple structure. There’s little change in approach from day one, but dancing on the thin ice of noisy opposition to more comfortable lines has served them well so far. The band remains unruly and artistically free, and the album simply continues a granite string of conceptual upgrades from the debut onward. The whole thing is too rich to swallow in one go, so I’d definitely advise, besides an hour-long binge, taking it in installments and in smaller, controlled doses.

If the debut announced the imminent arrival of Jesus, and the sarcastic ones then sought comfort in a sea of seeming love by demystifying the tales (political and ideologically soothing), then after the bareness of form Gone Bald return from the rehab clinic of the past with a new direct and two punchy jabs, in a renewed shape. Less can be more, and what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. They themselves stressed an unmissable fact back in 2002: It Takes Guts To Tango. Thinning hairdos notwithstanding, Gone Bald are still, even after 16 years, a refreshing factor of renewed purpose for your alternative existence, evolution and feigned mental revolution be damned. The noise this time is redemptive, because beneath the sonic ballast, besides music, hide ideas worth tasting again and perfect brainwaves. Gone Bald have proven that despite the years they can pry open even the most tightly sealed corners of alternative-leaning souls, and show that some sequences of tones and chords are simply timeless and eternal!