It’s the simplicity which makes their music so brilliant, there’s absolutely no fat or indulgence anywhere – like a Liberty Ship, things are built on the most basic and hardened of elements
There is something so bloody majestic about White Hills, their constant refusal to demand anything less than complete domination of their musical surroundings, their growth from a smart, sensitive trip to a band only dealing in the possibilities arising from a grandiose, gargantuan wall of noise has been thrilling. That’s what they are, thrilling… clear sighted and unashamed. And if you were reeling from their last release Hp-1, with all its anger and sense of space, then Frying on This Rock should kick any doubt away that this is a band that has a clear sense of what they’re about.
The LP is bookended by two massively overreaching works, I Write A Thousand Letters and Song of Everything. If the titles don’t immediately hip you to what’s coming, then listening to these iron-clad Baroque aural catafalques, replete with souped up wheels certainly should. It’s the simplicity which makes their music so brilliant, there’s absolutely no fat or indulgence anywhere – like a Liberty Ship, things are built on the most basic and hardened of elements. Attitude informs the rest, often brutally so; tracks like Robot Stomp and You Dream to See are machine-like in their intensity and utterly alien nature. It’s a case of setting out a stall, drawing a line in the sand. You get the feeling that White Hills want to know where you stand. Now. And as with all their records they excel in creating a monumental headspace - Pads of Light is close to the sticky crystalline sensuality of AR Kane or the meditative side of Ash Ra Tempel on a come down from a session with Tim Leary.
Magnificent rock and roll.