Slinking through the shadows with their creepy piano tingles, string shingles, and romping rhythms tarrying close behind, Anoice delve deep, deep, deeeeeeeper into the woods than many post-rockers dare. Lucky for us back at the village, they return with many spices and leeches for our sick children. They also had this nifty lil' CD in tow, a nine-track nugget with a well-to-do balance of lift, tug, push, toggle, and flog.
Now we've seen a lot of these instrumental "types" come and go within the confines of our quaint village we like to call Nippletown; many of them have long since been turked (or worse) viciously, and publicly... hey, don't look at me, we had to make an example of them! Our people are sick of the same old post-rock that goes "derp-de-derp-de-doo-de-derp-derp."
Anoice are very fortunate, when you get down to the nuts and bolts of the matter. They could have easily been gutted like Talahasee trout upon surfacing in Nippletown, but their ear for dynamics is too finely attuned — we're not barbarians, for gawd's sake. We'd sooner prune the leaves of a Jerusalem Tulip with a chainsaw than disturb such a delicate balance of carefully nurtured nuance. The band even promised to accompany our monthly village stoning! Most of us hope they'll play an extended version of "Aspirin Music" (though we've never heard of this, how you say, Aspire-in[?] here in Nippletown) because it's military snare march-a-long and processional strings are perfect for a good, clean spot of, you know, stoning. Plus, we're big Sousa fans here in Nippletown. And yes: we've never heard of Aspire-in but we HAVE heard of Sousa. Deal with it... or are you hankering for a stoning yourself?
Back to Anoice's setlist: They could always go with "Kyoto," too; its slow, labored charge is similar to that of "Aspirin Music," with a cloppity-clop-clop high-hat rhythm that mirrors what the snare was doing a few tracks back and a few guitar pickings that sound awfully like a piece a band played for us a few months ago. Something to do with Explosions. Well, it doesn't matter anyway, we skinned them alive to fill an order for organic shawls. Come to think of it, we probably should have at least had the courtesy to kill them BEFORE we skinned them. Publicly. That must have been embarrassing. Oh well.
The one problem most of us here in Nippletown — including our presiding governor Mr. Ned T. Nippletwist — have noticed with Remmings is the scarcity of fleshed-out songs. The wax and wane of stellar mood moosic, rewarding as it can be, sometimes makes us a tad antsy. I bit my fingernails during the aimless meandering of "#7," fidgeted during "#5," and picked at my massive sword wound during "#3." Pretty painful; I'm not sure how much skin and tissue I can spare, so now I just skip past those ones. I mean, they don't even have names anyway!
In the end, we find Anoice to be a group too anointed with skill to sacrifice to our god or stone for our own amusement. They have blessed us with the luster of beautiful instrumental music, which is what a town like ours needs to rest its collective dogs. Oh shit, here comes fellow villager Fred. I hate that guy. I don't think he's seen me yet... oop, I've been spotted. Man, I'm so sick of this town. You can't get a moment of privacy, I tell you! I've got to get out ...
[Fred notices me, approaches, and starts a conversation.]
Fred: Hey, how the hell are ya?
Me: Good; good... well, fair, I guess.
Fred: Hey, you hear about the stoning? Live music and plenty of mead, man! I know you like a good spot of the mead. Hahahaha, you old sandbagger you!
Me: Yeah, but I feel strange right now. Listening to Anoice's music has left me forelorn. I mean, did you ever notice how gay this town is? All the houses are shaped like nipples; it's kinda, I dunno, creepy... I wish I lived in Labiatown.
Fred: Labiatown? What do they got there?
Me: Nipple-shaped houses, but they're not so pointy.
BA-DA-BING!!!
1. Untitled
2. Aspirin Music
3. Untitled
4. Kyoto
5. Untitled
6. Liange
7. Untitled
8. Three-Days Blow, The
9. Untitled
More about: Anoice
