Label - Schitt Boat Records, Lilinhammer
What is noise? What is music? What is life? These questions only address but a the tip of a dadaist iceberg, rampant with striations of Eno-esque sonic maraudery and beguiling sincerity, floating in a cold, yet honest ocean of the complex half emotions and unique kaleidoscopic worldview that the listener brings to the table.
Let me be frank - if you fail to at least see the boldness and cunning recontextualization of the artist/listener dynamic, then you may be better off imbibing the soylent green pushed out of the music-industrial complex vis-à-vis insipid pop sirens such as Miley Cyrus and her ilk. This is music for the psychonaut, less than the psychopath. It is the raw material of poetry, still embedded in the rough hewn rocks of potentiality. If one is but bold enough to buy the tools to excavate diamonds in the rough, excavate them, and polish them, they just might wind up with 60 Minutes of White Noise.
Dot’s production work is such that the album listens to you. Standout tracks in this regard include “White Noise - Pt I”, “White Noise Pt. IX”, “White Noise Finale” and surprisingly, “White Noise (Reprise)”. Dot is not a predictable artisan. He is a nebulous character, one who flutters from genre to genre, alighting on anything that may pique his ephemeral interest. The most striking panache and intersection of maverick musical mastery would easily be “White Noise Pt. XIX (Remix)” featuring Young Thug, Brick Squad’s resident savant and heir to the lean cup throne, now occupied by the currently reigning king of the Trap, Gucci Mane himself.
Thug and Dot clash like high and low pressure weather systems, titans in their own right. The resulting thunder clash is an order of magnitude more humbling than seeing the Arc of the Covenant with one’s own eyes. Dot’s daring use of white noise acts as the primer to the canvas that is the target of Thug’s dizzying splattering of verbal kitsch, capoeira-like spins of metaphor, and midas touch of high-end ignorance which transforms anything it touches into dookie chains and 100 spoke rims. A verbal confetti that sticks to your skin, playfully reminding you of your childhood. All the while, Thug, creating verbal drip castles with lean-soaked beach sand. It has me wanting gold fronts.
Given the fact that Small Dot is a veritable sonic alchemist, it’s no wonder he so easily paints the Rococo backdrop upon which Thug so irreverently dances, not unlike Mr. Tumness, the pan-pipe wielding fawn from the world of C.S. Lewis. Young Thug’s stunning abstractions betwixt lean-laced pirouettes amongst the crackle of white noise had me asking God to just take me now.
In his chosen idiom, Post-Atmostpheric Avant-Garde Whitenoise-core, Dot backflips between ocean-like drones of yearning white noise, to creeping, vine-like gossamer soundwaves that effervesce and meet their bittersweet ending on the tympanic membrane in an operatic explosion, one of something, or dare I someone fulfilling their ultimate and final vocation. Anything else sounds in comparison like so much bleating.
While most of the time soaring to stratospheric, oxygen-mask-warranting heights of exuberance, at times the white noise falls flat. It is as if at times listening to 60 Minutes of White noise may fail to capture the romance of, for example, Dot’s first, decidedly more Post Retro Sea Punk effort, “Fucking Sadly in a Dolphin Tank With Porpoises in the Day Time”. I wouldn’t go so far as to state that the magic is gone, far from it. Don’t get me wrong, 60 Minutes of White Noise is the closest thing to God that I have ever had the melancholy ecstasy of being engulfed by. I just suppose that FSIADTWPITDT will always make me flush, make my heart skip a beat like a first kiss or a caress of the first warm winds of spring against my winter-chapped face. But one mustn’t toy with one’s first impression of such an event, must one?
Clearly the feather in the cap of Schitt Boat Records, this iconoclastic, yet nostalgic cornucopia spills forth bountifully, wave after orgasmic wave of white noise. Small Dot is Moses, and I am the Hebrew. The radio is Ramses. Let my people go.
Written by Janus Ottergrüb