Gipping Through the Ages
Germ Lattice
Gipping Through the Ages
Boomkat Product Review:
Dirt-caked, tape-damaged outsider jams at their filthiest, Germ Lattice's debut is a flagrant deconstruction of post-punk, unravelling screwed basslines, chants and ritualistic beats with time dilating, on-the-fly concrète processes and canny studio techniques. Properly advanced biz, bit like hearing Valerio Tricoli let loose on The Fall's master tapes.
Friends for years when they were knocking around in London, it wasn't until Joe Barton, Mickey Donnelly and Louie Rice moved to Norwich and rented a studio in a "condemned brutalist shopping mall" that they started to figure out exactly how Germ Lattice should sound. They approached the project with a list of don'ts, rather than a stylistic blueprint, looking to avoid improvisation, bloated tracks or jam sessions, and concentrate on the meat of their sound. And it's paid off - 'Gipping Through the Ages' is a rare debut that sounds as if the trio have been through years of development already. There aren't any missteps, it's eight tight tracks that lay out an aesthetic and philosophy that hangs together throughout, even when Germ Lattice are scraping the edges of form and structure.
Opener 'Judas Gap' is an apt introduction, bringing us into the sound as its root with a twangy, wrong-footedly simplistic bassline and kick pattern that slowly swivels to reveal the ruffer textures. Nothing sounds exactly how it should: vocals are chopped and molded into unintelligible mumbles and screams, drums are mic-ed to bring out their most elastic tonalities, and synths are shaped into noisy, dissonant screams. And it's the band's live tape manipulation that gives the music an extra hit of adrenaline; this isn't processing for the sake of processing, by any means, Barton, Donnelly and Rice use the tape as an extra instrument, pushing various elements into the red and curving the timeline, using vintage GRM-style processes to tweeze and corrupt the flow.
And as the album shuffles forward, it only gets bolder and more corrosive. The rugged, boss-tuned resonance of homespun folk hums through 'Misprint Maker', if you train yr perception on the woody vibrations that underpin the band's garbled, tape-scrubbed drums and vocals. And all traces of formal structure are disappear by the time we reach 'Gipping', three-and-a-half minutes of ominous pitched-down groans, machine fuzz and hard-panned percussive interjections that sounds as if it could have been snipped from an early Hair Police side. With each successive track, Germ Lattice demonstrate their flexibility, but never overcomplicate things. It's radical punk music at its core - somewhere between Harry Pussy and Henry Cow - and each track balances on that energy rather than any desire to hit some theoretical target.
Just witness the vast gulf between 'Quag-time', a swampy slop of cymbal dings and incidental guitar noises, and 'Ground Truth', that lets its ferric, redlined atmosphere coalesce into a dissonant, psych-blues scuff. It shouldn't work, it shouldn't sound anywhere near this coherent - and it's got us reeling. Germ Lattice have not only done their homework (who else can sound like Suicide, Silver Apples and Dilloway-era Wolf Eyes concurrently), they've ripped it up and started again. Genius, really.
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Boomkat Product Review:
Dirt-caked, tape-damaged outsider jams at their filthiest, Germ Lattice's debut is a flagrant deconstruction of post-punk, unravelling screwed basslines, chants and ritualistic beats with time dilating, on-the-fly concrète processes and canny studio techniques. Properly advanced biz, bit like hearing Valerio Tricoli let loose on The Fall's master tapes.
Friends for years when they were knocking around in London, it wasn't until Joe Barton, Mickey Donnelly and Louie Rice moved to Norwich and rented a studio in a "condemned brutalist shopping mall" that they started to figure out exactly how Germ Lattice should sound. They approached the project with a list of don'ts, rather than a stylistic blueprint, looking to avoid improvisation, bloated tracks or jam sessions, and concentrate on the meat of their sound. And it's paid off - 'Gipping Through the Ages' is a rare debut that sounds as if the trio have been through years of development already. There aren't any missteps, it's eight tight tracks that lay out an aesthetic and philosophy that hangs together throughout, even when Germ Lattice are scraping the edges of form and structure.
Opener 'Judas Gap' is an apt introduction, bringing us into the sound as its root with a twangy, wrong-footedly simplistic bassline and kick pattern that slowly swivels to reveal the ruffer textures. Nothing sounds exactly how it should: vocals are chopped and molded into unintelligible mumbles and screams, drums are mic-ed to bring out their most elastic tonalities, and synths are shaped into noisy, dissonant screams. And it's the band's live tape manipulation that gives the music an extra hit of adrenaline; this isn't processing for the sake of processing, by any means, Barton, Donnelly and Rice use the tape as an extra instrument, pushing various elements into the red and curving the timeline, using vintage GRM-style processes to tweeze and corrupt the flow.
And as the album shuffles forward, it only gets bolder and more corrosive. The rugged, boss-tuned resonance of homespun folk hums through 'Misprint Maker', if you train yr perception on the woody vibrations that underpin the band's garbled, tape-scrubbed drums and vocals. And all traces of formal structure are disappear by the time we reach 'Gipping', three-and-a-half minutes of ominous pitched-down groans, machine fuzz and hard-panned percussive interjections that sounds as if it could have been snipped from an early Hair Police side. With each successive track, Germ Lattice demonstrate their flexibility, but never overcomplicate things. It's radical punk music at its core - somewhere between Harry Pussy and Henry Cow - and each track balances on that energy rather than any desire to hit some theoretical target.
Just witness the vast gulf between 'Quag-time', a swampy slop of cymbal dings and incidental guitar noises, and 'Ground Truth', that lets its ferric, redlined atmosphere coalesce into a dissonant, psych-blues scuff. It shouldn't work, it shouldn't sound anywhere near this coherent - and it's got us reeling. Germ Lattice have not only done their homework (who else can sound like Suicide, Silver Apples and Dilloway-era Wolf Eyes concurrently), they've ripped it up and started again. Genius, really.
Boomkat Product Review:
Dirt-caked, tape-damaged outsider jams at their filthiest, Germ Lattice's debut is a flagrant deconstruction of post-punk, unravelling screwed basslines, chants and ritualistic beats with time dilating, on-the-fly concrète processes and canny studio techniques. Properly advanced biz, bit like hearing Valerio Tricoli let loose on The Fall's master tapes.
Friends for years when they were knocking around in London, it wasn't until Joe Barton, Mickey Donnelly and Louie Rice moved to Norwich and rented a studio in a "condemned brutalist shopping mall" that they started to figure out exactly how Germ Lattice should sound. They approached the project with a list of don'ts, rather than a stylistic blueprint, looking to avoid improvisation, bloated tracks or jam sessions, and concentrate on the meat of their sound. And it's paid off - 'Gipping Through the Ages' is a rare debut that sounds as if the trio have been through years of development already. There aren't any missteps, it's eight tight tracks that lay out an aesthetic and philosophy that hangs together throughout, even when Germ Lattice are scraping the edges of form and structure.
Opener 'Judas Gap' is an apt introduction, bringing us into the sound as its root with a twangy, wrong-footedly simplistic bassline and kick pattern that slowly swivels to reveal the ruffer textures. Nothing sounds exactly how it should: vocals are chopped and molded into unintelligible mumbles and screams, drums are mic-ed to bring out their most elastic tonalities, and synths are shaped into noisy, dissonant screams. And it's the band's live tape manipulation that gives the music an extra hit of adrenaline; this isn't processing for the sake of processing, by any means, Barton, Donnelly and Rice use the tape as an extra instrument, pushing various elements into the red and curving the timeline, using vintage GRM-style processes to tweeze and corrupt the flow.
And as the album shuffles forward, it only gets bolder and more corrosive. The rugged, boss-tuned resonance of homespun folk hums through 'Misprint Maker', if you train yr perception on the woody vibrations that underpin the band's garbled, tape-scrubbed drums and vocals. And all traces of formal structure are disappear by the time we reach 'Gipping', three-and-a-half minutes of ominous pitched-down groans, machine fuzz and hard-panned percussive interjections that sounds as if it could have been snipped from an early Hair Police side. With each successive track, Germ Lattice demonstrate their flexibility, but never overcomplicate things. It's radical punk music at its core - somewhere between Harry Pussy and Henry Cow - and each track balances on that energy rather than any desire to hit some theoretical target.
Just witness the vast gulf between 'Quag-time', a swampy slop of cymbal dings and incidental guitar noises, and 'Ground Truth', that lets its ferric, redlined atmosphere coalesce into a dissonant, psych-blues scuff. It shouldn't work, it shouldn't sound anywhere near this coherent - and it's got us reeling. Germ Lattice have not only done their homework (who else can sound like Suicide, Silver Apples and Dilloway-era Wolf Eyes concurrently), they've ripped it up and started again. Genius, really.
Boomkat Product Review:
Dirt-caked, tape-damaged outsider jams at their filthiest, Germ Lattice's debut is a flagrant deconstruction of post-punk, unravelling screwed basslines, chants and ritualistic beats with time dilating, on-the-fly concrète processes and canny studio techniques. Properly advanced biz, bit like hearing Valerio Tricoli let loose on The Fall's master tapes.
Friends for years when they were knocking around in London, it wasn't until Joe Barton, Mickey Donnelly and Louie Rice moved to Norwich and rented a studio in a "condemned brutalist shopping mall" that they started to figure out exactly how Germ Lattice should sound. They approached the project with a list of don'ts, rather than a stylistic blueprint, looking to avoid improvisation, bloated tracks or jam sessions, and concentrate on the meat of their sound. And it's paid off - 'Gipping Through the Ages' is a rare debut that sounds as if the trio have been through years of development already. There aren't any missteps, it's eight tight tracks that lay out an aesthetic and philosophy that hangs together throughout, even when Germ Lattice are scraping the edges of form and structure.
Opener 'Judas Gap' is an apt introduction, bringing us into the sound as its root with a twangy, wrong-footedly simplistic bassline and kick pattern that slowly swivels to reveal the ruffer textures. Nothing sounds exactly how it should: vocals are chopped and molded into unintelligible mumbles and screams, drums are mic-ed to bring out their most elastic tonalities, and synths are shaped into noisy, dissonant screams. And it's the band's live tape manipulation that gives the music an extra hit of adrenaline; this isn't processing for the sake of processing, by any means, Barton, Donnelly and Rice use the tape as an extra instrument, pushing various elements into the red and curving the timeline, using vintage GRM-style processes to tweeze and corrupt the flow.
And as the album shuffles forward, it only gets bolder and more corrosive. The rugged, boss-tuned resonance of homespun folk hums through 'Misprint Maker', if you train yr perception on the woody vibrations that underpin the band's garbled, tape-scrubbed drums and vocals. And all traces of formal structure are disappear by the time we reach 'Gipping', three-and-a-half minutes of ominous pitched-down groans, machine fuzz and hard-panned percussive interjections that sounds as if it could have been snipped from an early Hair Police side. With each successive track, Germ Lattice demonstrate their flexibility, but never overcomplicate things. It's radical punk music at its core - somewhere between Harry Pussy and Henry Cow - and each track balances on that energy rather than any desire to hit some theoretical target.
Just witness the vast gulf between 'Quag-time', a swampy slop of cymbal dings and incidental guitar noises, and 'Ground Truth', that lets its ferric, redlined atmosphere coalesce into a dissonant, psych-blues scuff. It shouldn't work, it shouldn't sound anywhere near this coherent - and it's got us reeling. Germ Lattice have not only done their homework (who else can sound like Suicide, Silver Apples and Dilloway-era Wolf Eyes concurrently), they've ripped it up and started again. Genius, really.
Black vinyl LP in matte cover & printed inner sleeve.
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Boomkat Product Review:
Dirt-caked, tape-damaged outsider jams at their filthiest, Germ Lattice's debut is a flagrant deconstruction of post-punk, unravelling screwed basslines, chants and ritualistic beats with time dilating, on-the-fly concrète processes and canny studio techniques. Properly advanced biz, bit like hearing Valerio Tricoli let loose on The Fall's master tapes.
Friends for years when they were knocking around in London, it wasn't until Joe Barton, Mickey Donnelly and Louie Rice moved to Norwich and rented a studio in a "condemned brutalist shopping mall" that they started to figure out exactly how Germ Lattice should sound. They approached the project with a list of don'ts, rather than a stylistic blueprint, looking to avoid improvisation, bloated tracks or jam sessions, and concentrate on the meat of their sound. And it's paid off - 'Gipping Through the Ages' is a rare debut that sounds as if the trio have been through years of development already. There aren't any missteps, it's eight tight tracks that lay out an aesthetic and philosophy that hangs together throughout, even when Germ Lattice are scraping the edges of form and structure.
Opener 'Judas Gap' is an apt introduction, bringing us into the sound as its root with a twangy, wrong-footedly simplistic bassline and kick pattern that slowly swivels to reveal the ruffer textures. Nothing sounds exactly how it should: vocals are chopped and molded into unintelligible mumbles and screams, drums are mic-ed to bring out their most elastic tonalities, and synths are shaped into noisy, dissonant screams. And it's the band's live tape manipulation that gives the music an extra hit of adrenaline; this isn't processing for the sake of processing, by any means, Barton, Donnelly and Rice use the tape as an extra instrument, pushing various elements into the red and curving the timeline, using vintage GRM-style processes to tweeze and corrupt the flow.
And as the album shuffles forward, it only gets bolder and more corrosive. The rugged, boss-tuned resonance of homespun folk hums through 'Misprint Maker', if you train yr perception on the woody vibrations that underpin the band's garbled, tape-scrubbed drums and vocals. And all traces of formal structure are disappear by the time we reach 'Gipping', three-and-a-half minutes of ominous pitched-down groans, machine fuzz and hard-panned percussive interjections that sounds as if it could have been snipped from an early Hair Police side. With each successive track, Germ Lattice demonstrate their flexibility, but never overcomplicate things. It's radical punk music at its core - somewhere between Harry Pussy and Henry Cow - and each track balances on that energy rather than any desire to hit some theoretical target.
Just witness the vast gulf between 'Quag-time', a swampy slop of cymbal dings and incidental guitar noises, and 'Ground Truth', that lets its ferric, redlined atmosphere coalesce into a dissonant, psych-blues scuff. It shouldn't work, it shouldn't sound anywhere near this coherent - and it's got us reeling. Germ Lattice have not only done their homework (who else can sound like Suicide, Silver Apples and Dilloway-era Wolf Eyes concurrently), they've ripped it up and started again. Genius, really.
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