On their sardonically named third album,
3, New York City's multi-ethnic
Electroputas tell you right off the bat that they are sonic absurdists, favoring discordance over grace, but they are also unrepentant groovemeisters of a supreme order, taking a decidedly
Krautrock approach to extended jams with undeniable hooks. The
Social Registry website says it best: "From a storm of musical chaos emerges the trio
Electroputas with chunks of
noise, swathes of
psychedelic fervor, and large dashes of complete freakout fever." All but the most hardcore of noiseniks will want to fast-forward through the first track,
"International Harvest," as its two minutes and change of wordless screams, growls, stutters, and chants seem to go on for ten times that length. But anyone who appreciates a disjointed yet rollicking groove will be rewarded with track two,
"AA," and its chordal bass (recalling
Spinal Tap's
"Big Bottom"!), shimmying organ, spazzy guitar, and little Japanese girl vocals reminiscent of
Cibo Matto or
Deerhoof. The latter band's complex instrumentals are also referenced on the herky-jerky guitar/bass duel of
"Echo Temptation," as is the late, great
Thinking Fellers Union Local 282.
"Master Triangle" is a sincere homage to one of the band's biggest influences,
Can, a bass-driven piledriver (as are most of the songs here), especially in the vocals ripped straight from that band's inimitable
Damo Suzuki.
"Profundo Rosso" is a
post-punk/
free jazz guitarist's wet dream as a tinny electric careens from speaker to speaker, accompanied by vocals seemingly in Spanish, French, and Italian, garbled through some of the bandmembers' Japanese accents (most of the lyrics are unintelligible, quite possibly intentionally, except for this classic couplet from
"AA": "I like the taste of whiskey on my lips/So you said, my superstar"). And the utter meltdown of
"More" will make you want to light your stereo on fire and throw it through a tenth-story window (in a good way!).
Electroputas' music is both heady and visceral, Dada in philosophy but calculated in execution to make your fried brain dance. ~ Brian Way
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