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Slope - Steve Jansen | ||||||||||||||
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 Steve Jansen plays an integral, though easily overlooked, role in the efforts of one David Sylvain in his endeavors as Nine Horses. On Jansen's first solo work, his first opportunity to step to the fore, one can hear tell of what he says only through the voice of another, through an intermediary. Jansen denies himself so as to traverse his own trappings, the sewers of most musicians, chord and song structures and the like. This chamillion-like manner of absence and exclusion thereby functions in these pieces as the condition for the emergence of what is being depicted. Despite the occasionally scrappy and naive sound that results, this continual distillation of base elements generally shows a powerful sense of focus and driving force. Opener "Grip" bears this process out most explicitly: a piece of stereophonic malarky, bejewelled with woozy, melting breaks, panned whooshes leaving fluttery trails of sonic before and after-images, jarring electronic rhythmic judders, and a panoply of other soundshapes that defy either easy description or forensic tracing of their provenance, it's ultra-clean, remarkably organized and effective manner barely betrays a hint of its dumpster-diving origins. A spirit of curiosity and mischief continues to spread like a rash as Tim Eisenburg's cottonwool voice fades in and out of "Sleepyard", acting as a focussing beacon for the other musicians, as they build a heady collision of pop and experiment. In a retro-conscious culture though, it's difficult not to perceive certain works as datestamped with motifs that have musty clouds looming over their heads like halos. "December Train", for instance, stands quite unashamedly as a baroque bordello of sound synthesis and kitschadelic frippery; so much clunky, plastic electronic percussion doddering mechanically about austere outer-space synth zaps and Wurlitzer electric piano while a sax flutters gaily like a flag in the breeze. That being said, these are interspersed with truly accomplished, timeless pieces. See "Sow The Salt", for one, a contemplative, mildly disturbing orchestral composition, with a grinding organ sway that moves in step with Thomas Feiner's husky, affecting baritone. Brother David Sylvain has an offering too, his voice drapes across two of the albums most successful, straightforward works, "Playground Martyrs" and "Ballad Of A Deadman". Both are physical and rich in gesture. Especially on the latter, the players interweave each other with considerable subtlety, and hash out a delightfully strong, dirty dynamism that is quite memorable. Slope works with ideas a plenty, and many are filled out well on account of the devoted way in which Jansen serves them. Review by Max Schaefer
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