Author:

Terekke

YYYYYYYYYY
Date: 2013 Label: L.I.E.S. Format: Single Purchase Release
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With only his second release on the always diverse yet impeccably consistent L.I.E.S. (at the risk of piling onto the label’s already gaudily adorned critical lustre), Brooklyn’s Terekke defines the cusp of a new stylistic frontier, not just for New York’s expanding experimental underground electronic supernova but the entire futuristic machine music disaspora. Emerging from the cloud of noisy, swirling stardust currents left on the wake from a solar fusion reaction that collapsed genres, smashed matter together with antimatter in the deepest pockets of subspace and rearranged the conventions of dance music at the subatomic level, YYYYYYYYYYY points the way forward for intrepid intergalactic explorers of new mutant sound.

Keenly aware of history both ancient and recent, Terekke isn’t content to ride the wavey rhythms of fellow avant-techno pioneers like Actress or label mates Legowelt and Xosar, but continue their electron splicing chain reactions into further liberating reinvention. Steadily girded by thumping, pulsing kick drum neutrinos, this three track EP of deep space house is still smothered in a gauze of hazy tape hiss like the soon rereleased catalytic moon dream, ‘Pf-Pf-Pass’. But from the get on ‘Blank3′, and in subtle contrast to his peers, this release packs a decidedly bright, bouncing, shuffling, snapping glow – oscillating wormholes open, revealing portals to alternate dimensions filled with twinkling, twirling clusters of colour, dancing and spinning in and out of phase with the visible spectrum. Notably, infrared vocal samples flutter over beds of crisp percussion like the distorted transmissions of a lost satellite.

“Some times I know I’ve hurt you so much,
but I could never let you go.”

A voice calls out from a long doomed civilization lamenting its fatal flaw, a yearning warning cry to all who hear it. Over a fizzy, sparkling beat equal parts West African, West Indian and Midwestern, these haunting words on the appropriately titled stand-out ‘Amaze’ come clear slowly as if drifting into sensor range. This B side send off doesn’t so much build up as it leaks out into weightless bliss like the particles of an isotopic half life, as the record slips carefree past the Big Bang horizon line, over the edge of the universe and boomerangs back along the curved spine of space-time.

  • maya

    they just repressed damn.