I only heard about A Postcard From Rangoon Island last week - Matt Kennedy (Kitchen's Floor) mentioned The Rangoons' release in passing as one of the Australian offerings he had recently been getting into. And it is great - a four-track cassette of skewed pop weirdness featuring Ela Stiles (Bushwalking, Songs), Emma Ramsay (Holy Balm) and Jay Cruikshank (Home Run). It's his spoken word diatribes that at first seem the odd thing out here - a rambling pastiche of stream-of-consciousness whimsy and laconic barbs that belie a truly dark solipsistic worldview, covering topics such as sharks, shotguns, maniacal restauranteurs and tropical relaxation anxieties...I think. It is all delivered in such a throwaway fashion that it comes off as gleefully apathetic, even borderline sociopathic. Then of course there is the music - flutes, guitars that swing from crystalline chime to blood-encrusted fuzz, tippling drums that threaten to implode in a confusion of poorly-constructed kitware, painful ineptitude and devilish indifference. It all marries up into a exotic Petri dish of sonic equatorial disease, the hallucinations hovering before, or even in, the eyeballs, delirious before death - a deliciously dishevelled way to shuffle away. Grab this incredibly infectious fever dream through Paradise Daily here.
Monday, 7 September 2015
Marooned In A Rangoon Fever Dream
I only heard about A Postcard From Rangoon Island last week - Matt Kennedy (Kitchen's Floor) mentioned The Rangoons' release in passing as one of the Australian offerings he had recently been getting into. And it is great - a four-track cassette of skewed pop weirdness featuring Ela Stiles (Bushwalking, Songs), Emma Ramsay (Holy Balm) and Jay Cruikshank (Home Run). It's his spoken word diatribes that at first seem the odd thing out here - a rambling pastiche of stream-of-consciousness whimsy and laconic barbs that belie a truly dark solipsistic worldview, covering topics such as sharks, shotguns, maniacal restauranteurs and tropical relaxation anxieties...I think. It is all delivered in such a throwaway fashion that it comes off as gleefully apathetic, even borderline sociopathic. Then of course there is the music - flutes, guitars that swing from crystalline chime to blood-encrusted fuzz, tippling drums that threaten to implode in a confusion of poorly-constructed kitware, painful ineptitude and devilish indifference. It all marries up into a exotic Petri dish of sonic equatorial disease, the hallucinations hovering before, or even in, the eyeballs, delirious before death - a deliciously dishevelled way to shuffle away. Grab this incredibly infectious fever dream through Paradise Daily here.
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