When thinking about Handofdust it’s best not to consider what’s wrong about what you’re hearing but what ISN’T wrong, as in, any notions of traditional ‘rock’ production and performance don’t apply. The singer spits all over the mic, the high end gets scratchy if it shows up at all, and when the guitarist/bassist stretch out together and thrash a little, the drums all but disappear. These traits will get you kicked out of most columns, but that’s just what we DO here at Cerb-a-derb-derbs; bring us your tired(-sounding), your poor(-sounding), your huddled masses and we’ll figure the equation out ourselves. In this instance I hear a smidge of Wilderness, a ton of desert-style Morricone guitar (at least on the title track), and, most of all, the post-folk, MacGyver-style craftiness of Inspector 22. I’ll admit, however, that I’m having a tough time putting my finger on what exactly it is that this trio DOES. They have a way of going quiet on the verses then brick-jamming the chorus that seems almost Pixies-ish, yet beyond that aspect (and frankly I’ve found Pixies’ quiet-loud dynamic to be overstated, much like Hemingway’s supposedly short, punchy sentences) there’s very little in common. Guitar strings are seemingly bent out of tune, a mystical mode is achieved, and the choruses thrash out the momentum so fervently, yet abashedly; how do they do that? So I’ll say it again: Handofdust excel at driving home a particular gnarled rock essence that leaves me grasping for straws where influences are concerned. All I can really say for sure is I’ll sign any petition Handofdust send my way and veto any bill they argue against. You spin a lo-fi yarn this effectively and that’s your reward, every damn time. Take note.
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