AMFJ

Art, shouting, runaway glitchy madness
There’s a point where art-music becomes almost transcendentally self-indulgent and that is the point at which it also becomes magnificent. Amidst the rolling, repeated bass-bumps of Klasar, AMFJ reaches this point as the lead voice, covered in huge reverse reverb, bounces off the bleeps and fracturing beatscape to create an effect somewhat akin to, sorry, dropping a double-dip strawberry and hiding underneath a tube station platform listening to the announcements. The monstrously ascending amplitudes and filtered stumps of sonics become heartbeats, the vocals a Rotterdam-gabba-esque harangue. Sometimes music can be a beautiful nightmare and this unsettling doomy harbinger of an album is still preferable to listening to the output of any number of Billy Ray Cyrus’ progeny. The choppy plainsong of Ég er Guð is a pop song in comparison to a dense, occasionally brilliant exercise in the reclamation of musical profanity.

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