ALAN VEGA – STATION (MUTE RECORDS)
At the moment I find myself encountering numerous amounts of one man electronica aggro outfits. They try hard, they really do but these skinny and zitty sea monkey types come nowhere to even holding a candle to the sheer presence, importance and efficiency of Alan Vega and his legacy as lightning rod of Suicide.
On the eve of entering his sixties, the world of Alan Vega is an uglier proposition than ever as he acts as a mirror and serves us with a timely broadcast and state of the union address.
Despite the barrage of noise attached to this record there is a surprising amount of empathy amongst the overt blasts of apparent apathy, you sense that this is a man that is concerned for his children and the world that they will grow up in.
With vocals delivered as if recited and address through a PA at a rally descending into a riot it is a very tough listen to get through, quite removed from the buzzing drone of Suicide, now replaced by heavy beats often provided by his wife. Outside right now contractors are constructing a new super market behind my apartment and with the window open at times I am finding it tough to distinguish which sounds are originating from this record and their machinery.
In an industry that is swamped and over-run by chancers, at the Dirty Three ATP earlier this year Alan Vega was one of the runaway highlights for me and he was never more scathing than when launching into the eco conscious “Warrior, Fight Fa Ya Life”, a sci-fi horror story of a song heading straight into science fact if Mr Vega amongst millions is to be believed. “Psychopatha” deals with the issue of parents accounting for their kin fighting in Iraq, a similar ground addressed in “Traceman”, a song with a heavy stench of death applied. “Crime Street Cree” benefits from repetitive beats that sound like helicopter blades pierced with machine gun fire taken from a battle field while “Gun God Game” proves the fastest paced of the crop. The album closes with “Devastated” with Vega sounding defeated and in pain musing “how’s the future going to play out for our kids?”
At times the record out and out loses all coherence but if ever you need a wake up call or indeed need to deliver one, feel free to call on Alan Vega.
Thesaurus moment: cranky.
Alan Vega
Mute Records
At the moment I find myself encountering numerous amounts of one man electronica aggro outfits. They try hard, they really do but these skinny and zitty sea monkey types come nowhere to even holding a candle to the sheer presence, importance and efficiency of Alan Vega and his legacy as lightning rod of Suicide.
On the eve of entering his sixties, the world of Alan Vega is an uglier proposition than ever as he acts as a mirror and serves us with a timely broadcast and state of the union address.
Despite the barrage of noise attached to this record there is a surprising amount of empathy amongst the overt blasts of apparent apathy, you sense that this is a man that is concerned for his children and the world that they will grow up in.
With vocals delivered as if recited and address through a PA at a rally descending into a riot it is a very tough listen to get through, quite removed from the buzzing drone of Suicide, now replaced by heavy beats often provided by his wife. Outside right now contractors are constructing a new super market behind my apartment and with the window open at times I am finding it tough to distinguish which sounds are originating from this record and their machinery.
In an industry that is swamped and over-run by chancers, at the Dirty Three ATP earlier this year Alan Vega was one of the runaway highlights for me and he was never more scathing than when launching into the eco conscious “Warrior, Fight Fa Ya Life”, a sci-fi horror story of a song heading straight into science fact if Mr Vega amongst millions is to be believed. “Psychopatha” deals with the issue of parents accounting for their kin fighting in Iraq, a similar ground addressed in “Traceman”, a song with a heavy stench of death applied. “Crime Street Cree” benefits from repetitive beats that sound like helicopter blades pierced with machine gun fire taken from a battle field while “Gun God Game” proves the fastest paced of the crop. The album closes with “Devastated” with Vega sounding defeated and in pain musing “how’s the future going to play out for our kids?”
At times the record out and out loses all coherence but if ever you need a wake up call or indeed need to deliver one, feel free to call on Alan Vega.
Thesaurus moment: cranky.
Alan Vega
Mute Records
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