White Hills – Frying On This Rock

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

 

 

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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.