Sixteen years is a long absence, and long regarded act Inca Eyeball are ready to fill the void with anything but silence. Barry White Comes is 83 songs of half-formed poetry vomits met with equally frugal attempts at instrumentation. It’s a tough scene to re-enter, even as pioneers of songs the length of vinegar strokes. So many of the tree branches that came from the Inca Eyeball root have flowered into magnificent variants. Mad Nanna has taken the production and nonsense into long form masterpieces and befuddled lyrics and sour notes. And myriad bands riff on the one minute song, perhaps hitting a more elegant form. But as fulfilling as modern takes are on the modernist cynicism of Inca Eyeball in the interim, it’s great to have the OG bulb flourishing after a long hibernation where squirrels and insects nibbled away at its form. Though chunks may be taken out, Barry White Comes eventually settles into a rhythm that, for all its disconcerting noises, feels good. I doubt that’s what Inca Eyeball really want to achieve — creating comfort noise — but considering how borderless the band appears, it’s nice to find a knothole to curl up inside. Turns out the album’s art, a champagne flute bubbling with a few of what appears to be Barry White’s best swimmers, is far more disturbing even after staring at it for 83 songs and (not so) many minutes.
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