Pistol Whip / Zion

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21 May 2012

Mix Act
Pistol Whip Norin & Rad
Zion Norin & Rad

Pistol Whip

After they Bloomed, this was deemed appropriate. PW feels like being struck or beaten with a pistol, especially with its butt: their hypowhleming electrotrash leaves much to be desired, such as getting that time out of your precious life back, but it won't happen. They were not confident a tuneful climax could impress anyone, so they hid the tune in between throwaway bass, a common tactic. When it does appear, the tune is a rushed half-measure to solve the problem it creates, namely, making N&R look like the wooden bloodpuppets they are.
But bad mistakes can serve to teach others. PW is another great example of that: this tune should be taught in schools as a shining example of chyle. Many artists must prove they aren't "fake deep". PW, meanwhile, is "quick deep": a blazing rush to the finish line at the bottom of a particular trench. So make a quick descent that uses dark keys, & copy it if you have to; if you can't spare more than five seconds, then leave gaps, so that us plebs can fill them in with whatever we want. We wouldn't want to see effort come from musicians, now would we?
Put it on repeat before anyone can complain, & add with minimal changes, none of which substantially change anything. The proles will eat it up.


This jab at their fellow neolib Maor Levi is what they saved up their combined talent for. PW did not even have memorable elektrotrash, whereas every silken second of Zion oozes lubricious charisma. The eternal style seems older than Bloom, their typical bombast, but Zion is memorable. Compare PW's dry, stale barrage with a hint of brash, to Zion's smooth patterns that etch themselves in & throughout the soul. The tune completes the blackage, ending in a drawn-out, slow tristesse noblesse. The tropical farrago begins at 2:27, at first a mere piano skeleton. But it haunts, shifting up & down every time it peeks round a gravestone. The minimalesque keys & their season-change form a despondency with the force of a wrecking ball made of fossilized lead.
Steps leading up & down are superraised by a mechanical whirl that spins slower & faster, & is always a welcome stimulant.[1] But the best psychostimulant is the new field, another shower, a tiny drizzle that outclouds wisps, a light fairy touch that outdoes rainbow pearls' striking piercing. The extended thwirls hasten alongside the triplet beat that does less than placebos up a ramp to the empty climax, a few measly percussive twists that get crowned with their sleepy siren. Thankfully, the tune returns, but strangely, it never rises beyond the background. Only a hushed whisper is a strange thing for them to do, & the faint aura of assiduity is swiftly brushed aside to make way for more horns. For this one, you'll have to decide for yourself.

  1. cf. Koalastrike