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Geordie makes good use of a voice that's as smooth as silk and a delivery that promises the utmost reliability, but it's not making a discernible effort to distract from the wonderful glitchiness and complication that hides in the background.
Out of many odd cover-filled releases bands have ejected over the last year-plus, this is one of the most disparate and interesting, partly from the selections and the interstitial music, but mostly because it’s not what you expect from black midi.
Insistent angular weirdfunk, songs that sound like tape loops that have fallen out of order and yet maintain a diligent desire to be songs.
Matt Berry returns, this time emerging from his velvet time machine with a suitcase full of pop psychedelia worthy of a light show and some very stiff drinks, and you are but a wide-eyed innocent allowed to hang out at his groovy pad.
“Charmingly abrasive” sounds like an oxymoron, but it is certainly something that describes music like this, angular sounds and a distraught female voice rambling on about blue tits, and I don’t think she means birds.
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