Fresh Stream

Georgia – All Kind Music


No mise en place. Pass the blender. Pulverize the uncooked—the potatoes, the kiwi, the peach, the pear, the taro, the seeds, the roots. Add a dash of instant coffee. Eat fast. Drink fast. So fast your body can’t digest. Slowly, let the blood rush to your head.

The Brooklyn duo of Brian Close and Justin Tripp make a singed electronic babble that has an odd, naturally synthetic palpability. With the right adjustment, it’s a pool of solid tones with percussive cracklings settling into suspension. It is cut from the same cloth as My Life In The Bush Of Ghosts, and their newest full-length, All Kind Music, is lauded by Palto Flats’ website as “true world dance music for the next millennium,” very similar to My Life had been. Like My Life, it pulls tones from tape music, Don Cherry global jazz, avant-garde electronic music, and free jazz, and creates a wafting environment with little to no turbulence.

Like the rest of Georgia’s output, All Kind Music is a confectionary mess, but it’s the most succinct statement the duo has made so far. Their last full-length, Like Comment, was wide reaching with broad and colorful strokes, and abrasive flecks. All Kind Music works with a palette; it reveals a desire to scaffold their collagist urges. Moments of poised affectation shape All Kind Music—the coupled high notes of a piano or the vocals from Caroline Polachek (of Chairlift) on “Ama Yes Uzume”—make the loops and instrumentation feel less like an impressionistic smear and more like a forest floor bower decorated with Balloon plant pods and milkflower petals. It’s been made quickly, but also purposefully. All Kind Music trusts the dexterous improvisations of fingertips, like past recordings, but here they have more in mind.

All Kind Music is new age sprawl, a beautiful exhale; it’s the nectar, the pulp, and the juice—a highly reflective cross-section. It’s an abrasion on pale skin, a smarting rug burn. It’s a garden in a bathroom, with light reflecting off subway tiles and specks of soil in the hand towels. It’s expansive, but with self-prescribed pressure points. It’s syncopated, but not necessarily rhythmically. It holds different things at once, but it favors whimsy over strength. It’s squirrelly rather than pithy, a result of trusting nerves. It’s a light-headed realization, an egg drip from a lover’s hand.

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