Thursday, December 15, 2011

Tense, hoarse, sweaty, paranoid, frustrated, frustrating, belligerent, panicked, lost, pleading, apologetic, hopeful, 31 Knots were as turbulent and exhausting as ever on Trump Harm. It's  hard  to  precisely  explain  how  their  music  seems to happen to them  rather than being something they  themselves  have  created: less the  bliss of the  jam "losing yourself in the  music" than  it  is a sudden  panic-attack or  a surge of  semi-mystical and traumatic  insight, though,  again, there  is  none  of the catharsis of  thrash or  hardcore. 31 Knots  are  pensive, watchful,  dwelling on and within particular moments, mumbling through pockets of reprieve, subject to sudden surges of  elation followed by regret and melancholy slumps; masturbation, political bile, sexual and social inadequacy, guilty insight, cryptic truths just beyond their grasp, "bitter ellipsis in search of a sentence".

Like Vampire Weekend if they'd ever had to pick through a skip for furniture.

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