The world is coming to an end. That’s how it is. When events start to rush by, when the landscape goes by outside the window at a dizzyingly fast rate, and your guts tell you that collision is imminent, it means that something big is coming. And I’m not just talking about tsunamis, earthquakes, hurricanes, meteorites, and airplanes crashing into skyscrapers. In this year’s music, one can connect the dots and find a macabre picture that speaks of death, sulphur, and suffering. The latest to join Ragnarök in this announcement is a mysterious ripper that moves in the shadows, a fallen angel with black skin who has snoozed in the gutters of California (the city of Bakersfield) until now, waking up in all his ugliness like the Cthulhu of wonky… Giving a tormented roar that freezes one’s heart.
He’s very young, not even 25, and with connections in the secret cult of Brainfeeder, Low End Theory and other vertices of Los Angeles conspiracy, Mono/Poly is one of those who have seen the rise of Evil in their worst nightmares and want to tell us about it. Without floating around, without optimism, without the least intention of smiling, even in a nasty way. “Paramatma” is the pre-mortem testament to a reality that is slipping between our fingers to be lost in the drains of the beginning of this century. It doesn’t smell like a gutter, but it looks like it: there is dampness, toxic clouds, frightening sounds, fear, nervousness. Taken in by speeches that tell us about disturbing conspiracies –one of the most insistent explanations to us isnvolves a plot by the American government itself— the debut of Charles E. Dickerson is inspired by paranoia and cosmic terror, and gives us an hour of electronic spiritualism without a net, not suitable for boom bap fundamentalists or unprepared souls in search of evasion and smiles. The dark matter that holds the galaxy of Mono/Poly together, while its universe expands towards total freezing, has a perfectly discernible double edge: dubstep and wonky (dirty, dense, dark) are the secret. Evidently, hip hop, IDM, dancehall and other whims of California nouvelle vague also parade through this asteroid belt that would crush the Millennium Falcon as if it were a can of Coca-Cola on the highway.
Sounds of futuristic machines patched roughly on a crippled box of rhythms with low notes that could blow out the Adam’s apples of a thousand transvestites ( “Black Box Matrix Death”); oceans of liquid gas criss-crossed by waves of IDM and narcotic drumming ( “In The Air”); sick soups of depressive dubstep with little drops of J Dilla ( “The System Crumbles”); a pirate recording of Hannibal Lecter’s fax that makes the Spectre look like a spoiled girl in a convent school ( “False Flag”); weepy synthesisers and childlike melodies that take us back to the 90’s of Warp ( “Fireworks”); saturated basses that twist like dying worms in the immensity of space ( “Explosive Puppetry”); sequences of rhythms split under the weight of the dirtiest, most anarchic wonky ( “Antibodies”); overdoses of trippy jazz and cosmic electronic that are impossible to bear in your headphones without going crazy ( “Let’s Take A Trip”). “Paramatma” is harsh, and too experimental if your palate detests a moaner. You have to listen to it several times. It is strange. But it is also one of the most stimulating slaps in the face that the dark side of the new beatmakers of California has given us. It is the best way to understand that the end is near, that we are all puppets and that the Invasion of the Body Snatchers is real and it is here, right in front of our noses. Don’t believe that crock about rock’n’roll: this is really the devil’s music.