I’m loving the bioluminescent textures of Actress’s Hazyville, warm and cold at the same time, everything in the process of an amber freeze. (And what’s with the detourned Twin Peaks sample at the end of ‘Crushed’ – it gives what I’m struggling not to describe as a ghostly irradiation, a spectral pallor that only deepens the already potent impression of same elsewhere on the album.) Everything here seems thuddily amniotic, as if you’re listening through thick styrofoam. Diced rhythms, fragmenting levels of operation, these are important no doubt. But I can’t get away from the paranoic quaaludian feel, the oscillation between euphoria and tension, that comes with Actress’ disquisitions on the pliability of repetition. Tom McCarthy’s novel Remainder explored similar cleavages of mood in its steely (in execution) interrogations of the mad possibilities of a repetitious, looping psychopathological state. Actress and Burial make music about impressions (the stark melancholy of Burial’s ‘Night Bus’ springs to mind) so personal to me that I never imagined they could be the subject of public record.


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