May 08, 2013

The nucleus in the atom of Destruction Unit is Ryan Wong/Ryan Rousseau. Electrons have decayed, destabilizing what was initially an Alicja Trout/Jay Reatard/Ryan all-seeing pyramid eye. Lessened are the jittery glitches of robots in fits of rebellion against their masters. Increased is the languid, stretched, delayed optical pickup/transfer, fluid-starved dryness of lysergy. The rocket has crashed in a place that looks a fuck lot like a Yuma Circle K parking lot. All overlaid: The close-up webbed veins in their eyes, the broken webs of patched-and-melting asphalt, the stretchy, almost-hidden-traverse web of songs with venomous underbellies. Dust. Heat. The sun is so big and sparkling, the head of a hammer poised to strike, pelting in its slow traverse across the featureless sky. This is music that’s made under oppression and sounds like a sticky, encrusted escape from bondage. It’s music that’s as much atmosphere as movement. It’ll heat up the back sides of your eyes, slowly blinking, waiting for the clicking rejuvenation of paranoia. An excellent record. It captures.

 –todd (Jolly Dream,