Brasstronaut
Old World Lies EP
Unfamiliar Records/Sonic Unyon
By Jose Fritz
I have a folder on my laptop named “saddest and slowest”. It is a mix of only the most dark and melancholy songs I’ve ever come across. There is no bias to era, origin or artist, it’s wholly an emotional gauge of how gut-wrenchingly depressing the song may be. It includes works by Doveman, Muggabears, Tom McRae, To Box with Man, Ill Lit, and Clear Lake. Today it has a new entry: Brasstronaut.
They’ve written songs for starless nights followed by muddy wet days. It’s as sublime as (that of) early Bright Eyes, but not nearly as naïve; there is no word for this sensation. If it were inflicted on someone else I might call it schadenfreude. The music is melancholy, but delights in its own ennui. They are a dystopian answer to the Bad Plus, a textural counterpoint to the growing phenomena of frantic synthpop. It is as if in some alternate reality Rufus Wainwright could write songs and not be so fucking irritating.
While you listen you slowly sink into the couch while the light bulbs burn out one by one until you’re alone in the dark. The compressor on the refrigerator hums, it starts to rain, and your neighbor’s new baby screams in the distance . Traffic dies down until there’s nothing but you and the stereo. Drinking alone starts to sound like it may be okay this time. Then maybe it’s a good night to pop a fistful of Xanax and then maybe to clean your guns.
The instrumentation evokes the intricate arrangements of Norman Whitfield, and of Chet Baker. Edo Van Breeme is almost as soft a vocalist as Baker, but his lyrics are wry and visceral in a way that seems totally foreign to jazz: there is nothing brooding about this kind of melancholy. It’s openly depressed and seeking proper medication. I’ll let him speak for himself:
Escape from the clubs and the Montreal magazine treads
Sharpen your pitchforks and burn down the internet
Boil all your cell phones in cauldrons of hangover sweat
Stick up the DJ outside of his virgin store set
Cause these days it's nothing but Vice Magazines
And cocaine and tapered jeans
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