"Who is then this Kurt Vile", asked the neophyte spectator to a more learned friend at the door of the Barceló Theater, and this summed it up, in three words:" A rare singer-songwriter. "It may not be the most canonical or nuanced definition, but we accept it as a diagnostic In a moment of haste, it served as an index element: brainy rockers and newcomers with active radar approached to certify the alleged state of grace of one of the names that arouses most admiration in the independent circuit. as it has been a long time since he was certified in this courtroom, and, by the way, the feeling that the crowd is not enough argument to get excited about a harsh proposal but neither revolutionary nor particularly empathetic.
Vile is a great guitarist and a repetitive and monotonous singer, sometimes even exasperated.
Vile is a great guitarist and a repetitive and monotonous singer, sometimes even exasperated. He appears with the plaid shirt and the face hidden behind his matted mane, as if, at 38, we were facing an updated version of Neil Young. But where the Canadian brought fury and melody, intentionality and passion, poetry and vitriol, here prevails the self-contemplative spirit. Our new hero of alternative rock is a man of fertile trajectory and certainly extensive discography, but that enviable prolific mood incurs sometimes indulgence. Kurt may like optimal levels of self-esteem; Another thing is that we take for granted, without further objection, the bulk of an indistinguishable and reiterative discourse. In Roman paladino: a fill.
The first knock of the night, Wheelhouse, serves to lay the foundations of what will happen during the next hour and a half: an absorbed and circular mantra, more suggestive than addictive, which also deprives us of the harmonic support of the bass until almost the end of the song. We could say that the one from Pennsylvania mutters more than he sings, since the melodic factor is virtually non-existent. And it is not that he dispenses with the refrains, which is in his right; it is that he despises the articulation. Mush, gurgle, regurgitate. We might think that it purrs, but not even. It does not matter that it is impossible to translate into a pentagram what, in the absence of another musical formulation, is murmuring. Nor could we hum, predict, fall in love.
The newly illuminated Bottle it in serves as a plot thread, although this seventh album does not represent, would lack more, any evolution in the exasperating plain. We only confirm that Bassackward, in theory one of its substantial moments, reduces its scope from the ten minutes of the vinyl to a more pious format for the listener. But the psalmody is there, dominating everything. The perorata is repetitive, monotonous, leaden. Recidivist until the ears despair. "This song is about me," says Kurt as a preamble to KV crimes. They guessed it: as a good self-portrait is flat, irrelevant and repetitive, even if the electric guitar causes some pinching. Of course, comparing these Violators with Crazy Horse only invites us to rescue the parallelism between God and our brother-in-law.
"Hey, Madrid, I love you," confessed the friend Kurt at the time of monserga. By then, the postureo coexisted with the unrestrained gathering and the patience under minimums. Runner ups, without a band and with the sole company of their acoustics, could seem like an occasion to reconcile us, but it is difficult to build bridges before a new exhibition of inane posture, of rather amorphous tirade. As much as our friend professed shouts as a repeated resource of emphasis.
The thing with Kurt Vile could paint well and, nevertheless, it does not happen of a prolonged succession of yawns. Classy, maybe, but yawns in the end. Unfocused Irritants, if necessary. And it should be noted that we are facing a physiological reaction not without its dangers: that of jaws that have been left in disarray. Take care