8 Jun 2018

Get into this put Mamuthones and Bonnacons of Doom in their latest Album Club

They say:

Bonnacons of Doom: Bonnacons of Doom
It’s odd to finally have an album from Bonnacons of Doom. For years we have found them in the spaces where the fabric of reality is thin and warm Red Stripe is plentiful. Now we must confront them sans mirror masks and robes: in our homes and vehicles, on public transport, or even just on the street, where we must hope their ritualsitic invocations don’t cause that thin film to break and allow whatever’s behind to take us away.

The record starts with Solus, which sounds like a line of hooded figures (perhaps the Bonnacons themselves) marching towards total chaos and certain destruction, their orgiastic shrieks and calmly measured chanting belying the terrors about to confront them. When it does kick off, one guitar breaks free from the wall to twitch and dance like a snapped electricity cable, and it takes a couple of breakdowns to wrestle it to the ground.

Argenta, by contrast, is a swaying wash of clean, shimmering guitars and delayed vocals that builds and builds but favours poise and restraint at the precipice over more turmoil. Next is Industria, a droning soundscape of Eraserhead noise, punctuated by the subtle gonging of terracota pots, but it suffers from not being a prelude to full-band assault. It also illustrates that it’s the vocals that pushes this band through termination shock and into the heliosheath, setting them apart in a crowded post-rock marketplace even more so than the masks and robes.

Normal service is resumed on Rhizome, a noisy death samba that sounds like Mudhoney battling with those octopus monsters out of the Matrix and finally succumbing in a splintering hail of feedback. On Plantae the vocals return to the fore, and not before time. It’s the swaggering finale to a revenge story, with our bloodied and dirty hero dropping her lighter onto the trail of petrol that leads back to her overturned car and the villian trapped inside.

If there’s one critisism, it’s that the album isn’t long enough: at only five tracks, the malevolence doesn’t fully take hold, and only one song breaks the 10 minute mark. But that doesn’t mean you’re safe. The Bonnacons of Doom are still out there, their faces reflecting ours but seeing into our souls.

Mamuthones: Fear On The Corner
Italian outfit Mamuthones love a beat. And their album, Fear On The Corner is a riot.

Taking their name from the death-masked incarnations that have walked the processions and haunted the imaginations of the Sardinian locals in the traditions of their carnivals for centuries, the band live very much up to their namesake with a tribal monstrous concoction.

Melding post-punk, Afrobeat and voodoo-swamp boogie, there’s barely a pause for breath throughout the 45 minutes of this relentless record. Squalling guitar freakouts vie for position with wah-dissonance and frenetic tablas (The Wrong Side), verbose fuzz-drenched vocals collide with percussion which sounds like it is being pushed downstairs (Cars) and LCD Soundsystem jamming with Talking Heads (Show Me) are but a few of the sonic headfucks on offer on their ferocious rhythmic rollercoaster.

The eight minute Alone is a labyrinthine attack of distorted snaking guitars, bleached percussive drones and jazz time signatures almost so overwhelming you may need a lie down after it. And that’s just half the album covered. Fear On The Corner is a brutal listen – but one which demands repeated listen.

See the full piece here: GIT