Steve Reich’s bastard child, Chaltandr (SF Bay Area), comes at us with a short but sweaty barrage of cascading loops that wax & wane expertly to reveal touch & go focii & textures that never settle but lead us onto the next movement that’s overwhelming and maybe tonal but definitely textural percussive and what’s the difference between the two when there isn’t a chance to take a breath is that a fucking fog horn yes and a blow-out oh most definitely so we’re at Kirby Cove with fleeting vistas of the hazy bridge but I guess worried about ghost ships & barges in fleets like fleeting attention spans and this distorted onslaught is impending and catastrophic and sure as shit not worth a fuck for anything other than tripping out or re-setting to right like how can I collect myself, well, it’s only an 11 minute race from Side A to Side A, again, so, well, I guess,
I’ll listen to it again
For the fourth time
In a row.
Chaltandr has a serious penchant for mystique & aesthetics, btw; behold the good lookin’ ephemera documented in pix below. The mini-malist chapbook sweetens the pot ten-fold!
and/or
—Jacob An Kittenplan
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