As listeners in the MP3 age, we crave an initial frame of reference. We pride ourselves on being in the know. The kaleidoscopic diffusion of information that typifies our modern world can indeed be an important and useful tool; paradoxically, though, it often serves as an inadvertent but powerful foil to our innate human desire for discovery and wonder. In terms of music, we are so used to having some sort of idea about what a band or an album should sound like that we forget how miraculous it is to stumble upon something new, something untarnished. Such discovery becomes a truly exciting, if disorienting, experience. In the case of the remarkable self-titled EP from New Zealand noise-rockers Plagal Grind, it is a wholly welcome one.
Plagal Grind is not new in a chronological sense, but it was new to me, and it's probably new to you. It was released as a limited 12-inch EP in 1990, and -- well, that's it. It was due only to happenstance (more specifically, a brief blog mention and a friend's subsequent insistence that I take a listen) that I first heard these tunes myself. I mention all this not to try to prove my indie mettle, but to provide some context for those interested; also, simply to marvel at how something so minor and obscure can be so damn good. Fronting this group of mad Kiwi scientists was Alastair Galbraith, a name you may be more familiar with if you run in certain noise and experimental circles -- Galbraith was a founding member of several groups, including this one, before embarking upon a prolific and well-documented solo career. However, having come across Plagal Grind with little-to-no knowledge of the guy's later work, I remain weirdly hesitant to give that stuff a go; I suppose I fear crushing disappointment when nothing stacks up to this monumental EP.
The first track, "Vincent," roars quickly to life like some kind of decrepit shoegazey anthem, and it's dark: with Galbraith's vaguely-accented voice cloaked in mumbles and buried in the mix, it's damn near impossible to tell what the hell he's is singing about, but one might reasonably suppose it's something odd and altogether untoward. The song is affecting on a strange level and over before you know it -- of the seven songs on Plagal Grind, only two (barely) cross over the four-minute mark. Its brevity both enhances its mystery and belies its greatness. "Midnight Blue Vision" finds the band changing gears completely -- instead of MBV-style wash, we get a This Heat-esque dirge, complete with warbling, reversed tape loops and lumbering, minimalist death march percussion. This time, Galbraith's lyrics are decipherable, but no less ambiguous: "Mirror expanding, midnight blue vision/ Fingers entwining, you made me shiver/ All I remember is falling," he intones, a bizarre nightmare -- or, perhaps, a wonderful dream -- given new and terrifying life in song.
That track proves anomalous to the rest of the album, though, and over the next five tracks, Plagal Grind lets it fucking rip. The songs sound thick and oozing, like they might contain 20 guitar tracks each, and perhaps they do. It's not quite heavy, but dense, reaching its greatest potential at maximum volume (don't most things?), at once caterwauling yet somehow perfectly harmonious. Like the album's opener, the brief, churning "Yes Jazz Cactus" shifts tempos and textures effortlessly; "Marquesite Lace," in turn, plods along drunkenly at a psychotic snail's pace. All this expansive clamor builds methodically to the album's brilliant, breathtaking closer. "Blackout" is a luxurious, sprawling instrumental in the vein of the title track from Eno's Here Come the Warm Jets. Not only does it call to mind the dreamy, looping catatonia of that song, it nearly improves upon it -- as grand finales go, I've always thought of "Jets" as among the best, but "Blackout" dominates.
Put bluntly, I urge any and everyone to seek out and soak up this music: Plagal Grind is a fine and lasting recording. For as much as its guitar-centric, bass-heavy sound superficially reflects its early-90s-era conception, it is equally and absolutely timeless. Like all the best records before and after it, this EP sounds like nothing and everything you know, like years and years of pop music precariously compressed together, blown all to bits, then reassembled again into one singular, seismic recording. It is stunning; it is its own.
1. Vincent
2. Midnight Blue Vision
3. Receivership
4. Yes Jazz Cactus
5. Marquesite Lace
6. Starless Road
7. Blackout
