Noise rock, which has found itself in the midst of a renaissance of sorts, has become the favored sub-genre of the noise realm. The overwhelming number of releases unleashed daily certainly confirms this without question. And, as it is with all movements, there tends to be a lot of chaff among the wheat. Wading through the endless and oftentimes tedious exercises in machismo can be a daunting task, even for the most arduous fans, and a lack of true voice can be lost in the scree and feedback.
Pennsylvania trio Air Conditioning, however, are projecting a voice. And while they are not re-inventing the wheel, they request and earn allegiance in a flooded discipline.
“Where to Litter/Trash Burning” flashes into view, lurches forward, and carries along with the urgency of thrashing drum patterns, bass thrum, and showering splinters of guitar suffocating in feedback. Vocals strangled by the relentless waves surface and disappear, dragged down by undertow. The track staggers around the midway point in sense-deprived confusion, struggling to find its own breath under the endless onslaught of consumptive aggression. “Conclusions/Concussions” continues the assault as detritus moves in a circular pattern, vocals splicing through all-consuming frequencies. Intensity builds, breaks beneath its own force, and scatters. In its wake, the gentle swells and speaker hums that are “I Run Low,” in contrast to their surroundings, are an exercise in restraint.
Feedback and guitar squeal stagger and refocus to shadowbox with the undulating bass lines, running tandem to cymbal spray and drum roll, frenzied, delerious. This magnum opus, “Accept Your Paralysis/Cephalexin,” positioned as the outro, is by far my preferred track. Each element of the composition grinds and tears into one another, exchanging flesh and blood, sexually invasive in their nature. (If you have never seen Trouble Every Day by Claire Denis, there is one main violent sequence of this film that demonstrates my description visually; you might want to consider viewing it.) The track culminates with an openness that allows the individual sounds to extend themselves upward and trail off in sinus tone, an absolute finale.
Other reviews say Dead Rails falls short of capturing the fury of Air Conditioning's live shows. However, it should be stated that to capture noise at its most primal is not an enviable task for any artist. Experiencing a show where the artist's sound is presented without compromise, coupled with the benefit of the ‘moment,’ will invariably tend to overshadow any recorded effort. I am an avid follower of Zbigniew Karkowski, and though his recordings are oftentimes brilliant, there is still nothing like his live presentations. One of his performances almost inspired a panic attack, as his frequencies drilled into my cranium, and to even form a clear thought seemed impossible. Similarly, this record might not match Air Conditioning's live presence, but it's still a formidable recorded force.
The other common accusation is that the record is too short at 33 minutes, which I find preposterous. I long for the days when artists were restricted to 35-40 minutes, unless they put out a double record. I find many of the exhausting 75-80 minute marathons today to be incredibly daunting and sadly revealing, as most artists have about 30-40 minutes of actual genuine idea, while the remainder plods along aimlessly at the expense of the listener. Dead Rails' 33 minutes more than satiates a listening session, and if more is desired, well, for fuck's sake, there's always the repeat button.
I will say that noise rock is not a genre I invest an awful lot of interest in. Not even writing this review helps me to fully understand why I enjoy Dead Rails as much as I do -- in fact, most of what I have described usually puts me off a record. Sometimes, however, the mystery of attraction is half of a band's allure. Ultimately, the dozen-plus times that I have listened to this record in two weeks is testament to my appreciation of what Air Conditioning have accomplished; take that as an endorsement.
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