The Bipolar EP
13 February 2012
|It's Yours||Mat Zo|
|Ring On It||Mat Zo|
|Yoyo Ma||Mat Zo|
The last of the pre-Grammy Zohar was his rawest hemocution.
Opening with spinning, ringing phonosecting airsplitters was mystical, as is the crunch beat. Following it with a slow construction was not. But what it built into transcalculate our neuroception demonously, twisting often, & into Mobius antipreztels every time. "Ask yourself, can you dance?" says Blaze & Palmer Brown in their song "My Beat" 1998. To this? Both ends of the spectrum need their own style, since this has no tuneful climax. Instead, 2:48 to 5:04 confront us with an intradazzling floestorm holed with unpredictable gaps, bumping us on this ultrasmooth ride to tha Panarctic. Everything's in order; it involves both polar regions.
The drop two minutes in is nice. But bland fanfare is destimulating. Even in a time when trance was more conformist, this breaking the mold gave us a mould. The base of It's Yours is a 58th century rendition of John Cutler's It's Yours feat. E-Man, from the duonote to the declaration. But He added His own superstructure. Bats fly out at 3:29, transonic implications helixing up to a tuneful, snappy climax that brings back the gaps, though not the tolerableness. Iteration & simplicity together are avoidable, & undesirable, so he spiced it up with a fast flowing rivlet of sugar. But it was all for nothing. It's mine? No thanks.
Ring On It
The God of the gaps reminds us again that what is lost in substance cannot be made up for in style. The whole air of ROI is a thin proposal cut off by its own beginning. The end never comes, not because it ends & then ends again, but because he restarts every couple of seconds. From bile to style, we have another of his concept pieces, like Rush, but unlike the older smoothness, this is fully his. Never does the tune improve or change, but the style neuroscends at 5:17 into the glassiest brainfunk in global history. More funk than any funk musician, it's sad that it had to go with this cacotune.
Returning to the other extreme, the pole of sensefulness, Yoyo Ma is the 15-minute awaited Antipode of Zoharness we need to breathe. The synth warms us in to the musichood, the meaning getting less gentle each passing moment, until it's no longer a Titanic wave, but a titanic wave. Scrap the Bahrainona. Put away Ertra, Ertra, Ertra. Burn Himnusz. This is the only anthem we need.
YM couldn't do as well as the climax does. Unapologising & unbashfully bashing, the belting rounds, whips, & rips again for a drenched minute. Then there's more than a minute of nanodetail, handcrafted down to the splittest second. If only this effort had been spent on things that matter.