This music here. Right here. DO NOT FUCKING DENY ME! Listen to it. Go on. Listen to it. Shutter the blinds, draw up a virtual whiskey bottle, renounce the Internet. Turn the volume up to beyond endurance. Then turn the volume down so you can listen to it. And listen to it. Bruised and beautiful.
You want context? I’ll give you fucking context. Go and have a read of this. Go on. Now. I’ve probably seen Jacqui Ham – the voice on the Dial – perform on stage more than anyone this side of… I can’t think of anyone else. And I haven’t seen her perform in two decades. Coincidentally, this coincides with how long Dial have been around – experimental, if you want to call fucking with your innermost emotions experimental; discordant, assuming you believe there is a good and bad way to express emotion; free-form and improvised in places but more often than not so fucking tightly wound and coiled that you fear for everyone involved, the intensity is so… uh, intense. (I write “coincidentally” because it fucking IS: every time I hear a Dial album I CANNOT BELIEVE I haven’t witnessed this trembling exorcism, this mangling of guitar strings and BEAUTIFUL discordance and plaintive cries-in-the-dark in the flesh.) This new album, this new album that this song is taken from, is called Western Front. (I had a song called ‘Western Front’ once also: before UT entered my life and altered my entire perception of what music could be.) It’s bruised. It’s beautiful. It’ll scrape and scour away at your very soul if you even give it a quarter of a fucking chance. LISTEN to the music. Listen to it.
Here’s a link. And here’s the band’s website. Whatever. I know you can’t be fucking bothered. You have your own paths and trails to follow, your own treasure chests to open full of mostly grey and unwarranted mediocrity.
Christ, you’re irritating the shit of me right now. Have a listen. Go on. FUCKING LISTEN. A feral epiphany right here in your fucking underwear. A dissonant surge.