Eight songs of Parisian garage art. The sheer amount of treble is hypnotic, the shards of guitar bring Big Black to mind, the sullen, drawled vocals owe a thing or two to Mark E. Smith of The Fall, and it sounds like there’s a drum machine ticking away under all of the tinfoil-chewing white noise. I picture this band living in a warehouse, and if I went over there and said, “Hey guys, it’s a nice afternoon. Let’s go outside!” they’d all light smokes at the same time and go, “No. We’re nihilists,” then go back to throwing cinderblocks and skronking the day away.
–CT Terry (Rijapov, myspace.com/rijapovrecords)