Garde Forestier truck in a brand of tape-trade indie-centric drivel that you didn’t ever know you wanted blasted into your face like a skunk hit. It’s like the Doogie Howser theme mated with Macula Dog and squirted out this self-titled effort in passing. And hey, some animals don’t know their capabilities, no? GF kick all sorts of dead cans down the road, treating their synths like toys and your attention like a given, horsing around and making faces behind the glass while you struggle to glean a meaning. Strangely, it’s there, beneath all the faux-bombast, lying in wait like Rambo with a knife between his teeth and muscles throbbing like florescent lights and glowing just as brightly. Garde Forestier take shots of cliche and gargle it until it turns into another form of expression altogether, sort of like what vaporwave was supposed to be maybe? All normcore-y, with in-plain-sight tools and instruments betraying the depths you’ll find yourself in once a few tracks float by like ghost memories. When a concrete beat gashes cracks in the streets, the synths land even more effectively, as they finally have a star to hitch their enormous wagon to. Then another synth blast and I’m remembering that wonderful Paintings Of Windows lathe-cut, buttressed by the aforementioned bulbous beats and low-end accompaniment. All in all, Garde Forestier is a grower not a shower, sinking its claws into you after a few tracks of distraction. Don’t let the beats lull you to sleep unless you want the probing you’re going to get… Heady stuff; airtight, too; happy to have heard from Field Hymns, as always.
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