|Released||July 13, 2012|
|Singles from Multiverse|
Multiverse is Jaytech's second and best album. His first, Everything Is OK, had too much filler. It is not natsukashii. The name comes from the diversity of the sound herein, especially compared to his first. Behold his sound of 2012.
|4.||"Labour Of Love"||5:07|
|7.||"Through The Maze"||6:21|
A tract of marshland, especially one containing clumps of sawgrass and hammocks of vegetation. Sometimes even I overlook this album, but it is one of the freshest squeezes of the Anjuna lemon. Still forgoing opener tracks, this full-length blackfire has an intro & an outro. The Hound of the Baskervilles had a lighter & less deadly marsh than this: ab initio, he makes the ground rubber, ruberescing & bouncing, grooving & melting. This everbounding never stops. It keeps going for the whole album. His instruments are so specific and justifiably reused, that his claim to eclecticism carries one big obelus over it. The songs can be told apart from each other, but that's not the same as varied. Every single one is the same Jaytechian electroprog, so the album's name is misleading. Everglade, per contra, is nothing it does not suggest. The vocals, from the perbounding, playful wonder & merriment of the interstitial mellow hit, to the starlightning chorus, are neverdimming redwoods for the black-dripping vines of the tune to cling to and send to the lightlessest anomaly. JC nigreverted the purest, airiest subreal spring into a pitchblende geyser. Everything is involved: the curling, furling smoke under our feet grows into the psychochrome roses pervading our noses; the main bounce reassigned to an 8-4-4 that abandoned all mercy; & a pre-Cambrian Lovecraft gong starts us off each time. The parts with less instruments are overshining umbras. To finish, a great beginning.
The smooth transition is interrupted by this tsetse fly of an earworm. Most of this Vol 9 cogspanner is a four-second loop too soul-sandpapering for video game-playing channels, & the sole respite from the molar grating is the brief eclipse that returns us to disruptive benthocognition. This did not need to be here.
Rabbit Raiders (aka 'Raving Rabbids')
This was also known as "Raving Rabbids", a fact found in many places. Of course they had to change it, due to copyright or whatever. It was a bad idea in the first place, but it doesn't affect the song, which can't be improved anyway. RR might sound like a mirrored reflection of Labour Of Love in the first two seconds, a true testament to the eclecticism found here. But this is its own ride into the basilisk mouth, the belly of the increased, swelling with untimeable, antifinite spissitude that shows why Multiverse is best.
One cubic centimetre of quantum space can boil away our oceans. One minute of this can do better, more than just gejang, but a distinction level event there's only been several of so far. More anoxic is this delayed-action neurotoxin, a quaternary sinkbomb paired with an incorruptible synthcoaster. The style mainly takes after the rest of not only Multiverse, but JC's whole ouevre at this stage, with a slight tinge of retro akinspiration. The twelve-ton knives drop into ten-ton bombs & drive the electrobrash, which smoothly pounds alongside a modified version, no safer, but ůberliciously woven for the benthic stretch between climaxes nonetheless. Rabbit Raiders has the harshest tune quality-to-title quality of all time.
Labour Of Love
Emphasis on labour. This is splayed by several monster features, each of which gives the effect of using a skyscraper as the foundation for another skyscraper, the towering behemoth caterpillar impossibly rising higher into cold freshness with each unbelievable leap into the recesses of the upper thermosphere. The best song from the best album from the best musician from Australia has no comparison. Nathan Grainger excelled as a vocalist should. Despite having a typical male voice, NG was used as JC's hypersonic autonomous car, soaring through air, cutting through aether, his highest neurovagance fertilising golden crystals too hot for the clouds to handle. Whether it's the background, seminal, germinal vocal cuts, the verses, the chorus, or the coda, Grainger put his body into it, & now we can feel this in ours. As a matter of fact, this has 3 perfect parts, making a trifecta. Bliss is routed to the brain & body & pumped by the gigalitre by each ingredient, never dripping, only flooding. There are the vocals, the undertune, the overtune, & the piano flourish. You need to sing along with the lyrics to fully energise all of the nerves & pleasure receptors in your body, so since all the lyrics sites have them completely wrong for some reason, here's the chorus: "I'm over my head & I'm drowning; this letter of love feels so brand new; I'm feeling the pressure, I'm falling; don't care if it hurts me, I'll brave it with you."
The component that will stick out the most, however, is the foretune, simply due to its unique structure that makes it always seem like it's falling. It is impossible to convey how deathly wondershining this is. The sheer audacity of this climaxima cum laude, combined with the effortlessly algific sunderance makes this a cardiacally risky ride, that'll ripnotise you into searing black holes forged from tears. Have you ever drowned in liquid oxygen? Well, this Tethys's myotrauma gets close.
It cannot be overstated how uber-ecstasy forms the entirety of this. This is eternity.
Epsilonics may be the study of error in mathematical approximations, but there's no errors to be stumbled upon here. The fifth letter of the Greek alphabet, & the fifth song on this album, is first in quality. Although the tune is entirely iterative, as expressed in its clearest form at 4:21, it still manages to stand on its own pillarlike legs. The sights on this soundscape are nirvanically inhabited by an Australia-sized selection of laetificacies, from the blithesome patterns that jubilate requilarily, to the uranic skyfire that is his merciless electronic cuts. The momentous tune is an ianthine experiment in how lambada-worthy aeriform music can be, & the results are in. In maths & computing, "epsilon" means an arbitrarily small quantity, & a negligible effect. But Cayzer's is the opposite.
Truth in titling. Although this has no tuneful climax, there are a couple of ignipotent portions that make the album sing. Although the majority of the song is a simple introduction to blandology, with a repeating foray into nowhere new at all, the main tune outshines the affair with an equally simple, but ferociously obfuscous illapse, covering the pancakes of those sweet vocals with the atrament of centuries of fermented, syrupy fog. The bridge & outro, meanwhile, are a separate, unlit totem of ghostdom, pneumatically spiralling up a slow ascent, acclinating into the dark sky, since the light-devoid depths of space always lie behind even the brightest of skies, just as this tune waits behind the foretune. That centred & over-displayed pattern won't spoil anything, though. There is even a riff that plays at the end, & throughout the song, which is bound to live on forever in your head, no matter what you're listening to. That simple hexad plays off well at the end of the first dark tune. Overall, not exactly a whirlwind of soul-crushing musical Sagarmatha, but still a card pack of antegrade musical ideas.
Through The Maze
'Mazë' is Albanian for cream, which suits this cream of the crop. Cayzer enlit himself, & us, with this utterly mazing [sic] blend of scaleless, aerial depth with volleying elëquetrofunk, resulting in a scalelessly smooth slide into subpravity. The tune is amazingly long for one that shoots do many stars into the snookerholes of supraexistence. The airless freedom of this tune cannot be overexaggerated by a femtometre. Before the bass drops back in, the Garden of Eden path that this tune takes knocks the brain cells out of their position, & reconstructs them in a blinding pattern with just how untouchably preternaturalist & ethereal the space there are in is. It continues past the point you would expect it to, building a quantum stream up each second, releasing it all when the techfunk adopts its ways. This climax, & its lead-up, are the glueyest, blissfullest, deeply pererrative mirrors into being that have been discovered. Jaytech's tune is a story of recovery, magic, & serenity. This is the most soulfully sanative hedonism humankind has produced.
Versatility is raised from Hadean graves by this song. Starting like an Andrew Bayer synth tapestry of frictionless silk, Diode slips from plaintive strains into mroe solid electrofunque, a grippable jaunt with some effortless groove to it. However, the real star of this song is neither of these, which necessitate neither listening nor buying this song. The real creativity within Diode is the shift into alien artistry, an acerbically stabbing left turn into a steep, beghosted descent into light-stolen fuligin, blowing the other two parts out of the water with its sheer mocking derision of delicacy & lightness of feeling. The pungent sourness is a tasty delicacy, set up perfectly by the airy precedences. This is definitely an electronic device that allows current to flow in one direction only, because that direction is into a tar pit. Diode is nearly a jewel in the diadem that is Multiverse.
3:14 is the opener you're looking for. & he seems to have left off the 15926535, but it's transcendental nonetheless. This solemn piece de remembrance is yet another Jaytech classic, effortlessly justifying its existence, a ripnotic striptide not missing a single beat in its neurotraumatic crusade towards squaring the circular heavens, a heavenful of tears in every nanomoment of its irradicating quest on a maxima cum laude tune. Not only is this earnest, but it demands continuation. Most of the runtime is anodynic adoxography, but the time taken from 3:14 to 4:29 is time added to your life, not taken away. A doctor is indeed in the house, & the lifesaving never stops.
The cuttable first half is his piddling bass rolling like folds of honey in tea, his style pumped up because the bass is not. It is always mind-questioning when they make a portion absorbing because of what preceded it. This prime priming is seen when the rambling piano freeze-moves against the subbass background, only made transmental by the previous rumble. Steve Smith made no name here, since he was not given anything special to do. The vocals per se are a dry flatbread, his dear fences keeping any exhilaration & intrigue out of his performance. When the time comes for his upspiral, he weakly yelled, since he seems to have been James' nonattempt at making this piano ramble sound more epic than it is. If he didn't try, then neither did Smith. His Wikipedia page is not Steve Smith (musician), nor Steve Smith (singer), but Steve Smith (house music vocalist). The instrumental is an aimless, destinationless loop of a playful piano, if that piano is playing Sealandian Roulette with mildness for bullets. It never changes, always taunting, avoiding the path much less taken. The rare solace found in this hellland is the background copypaste of his song Paradox, which you should buy anyway, despite this macabre caricature of the Great Sandy. Paradox has the psychomorphic diabolism upfront, unpolluted by anaesthetised piano & a drowning waste of progtech.
This is spillingly sanguinaceous, & singling it was a very rewarding oblation. The instant recognition and homeliness of this song's particulars rubs me the right way before the tune even crystallises. The little zips, the paleofuturist bass, & the vocal slices all hit me as JC's without a speck of confusion. This metauniverse has design & purpose, but not predictability: the piano is as historic for music as humans are for Earth, from the warning ascent, to the bucking, post-jalapeno slow-rollicker. "I care", she says, & so does Jay: the simplest part of these unrelated tunes is the facile tetrad of piano upslopes that ends in a teasing and introductory recalcitrance that inspires a quizzical piquing that satisfies nothing. The real peaking is the unforetold smart quantum bomb that is Multiverse's stake on fame, the crown jewel of the album, that unpairable intracardial injaculation, Jaytech's ultracontrarian strike against order & oraclism, predictablility & indictability thrown away at 3:13 & 5:12 for an unpreceded & irregular smatter of sonorous & belllike notes that play off each other & the backing melody aggressively funkily. This irremovable tattoo is irresistable & strangely structured, the keys falling in places unheard of. This needed more of this & less of the microelectric buildup.
- Except GN & GH.
- Cayzer also made a "Jazzy Dub" which replaces anything worth hearing with neutralised pabulum.