The jagged swoon of KING Krule’s (Archy Marshall) no wave armaggedon jazz-punk lends a new ear with his fourth: SPACE HEAVY.
Despite what crisis he finds himself in, a King Krule song tends to be curdled in colourful liquorice. Dissonant hooks and sultry arpeggios wade through the mud. What pulls it out is Marshalls’ dark baritone vocals – a sombre, vulnerable tact to poetry as it brings out the very best of an artist who is always portraying his crumbling self.
His previews tell us that much. Half Man Half Shark is a rumbling tonic that undoubtedly anticipated the arrival for 2017’s The Ooz – Marshall’s second – while the empty corridor from his first, Easy Easy is a pent-up narcotic of venting frustrations to no one but himself in the mirror.
As the name suggests, he is a victim to his own downfall. A vile concoction of both love, self-loathing. Distorted lines of beauty. And despite him besotted with fatherhood, he is still battling with his existential demons. Becoming preoccupied with this notion of “the space between”, Krule’s Space Heavy plays into this as flairs filters off and sonic noise empties into almost nothingness.
Despite the highs of fatherhood, he can’t help but bring himself to the tipping point of isolation in failing relationship. And it all seems too melancholy for it’s own good.
Opener Flimsier spits out a relationship broken, “she said, It seems like these days merge as one” / Oh, I tried to change them to better ones, But you called it a day,” as he staggers back from the drowsy local afraid to draw up those conversations not too dissimilar to the ones playing in his head. Pink Shell is a more shot of anger, a disjointed sax solo that plays into Opus Kink‘s folly – a seemingly narcotic-infused version of Madness. Until the dust settles on smarmy Seaforth, a mutual understanding – or rather, refusing to accept the turmoil happening, “We sit and watch the planet die in urban burn / We sit and smile without concern.”
Hamburgerphobia is a disjointed throttling that ironically, despite the thematic running throughout, has a lot going on through it. God knows what Hamburgerphobia actually is. From The Swamp starts off with the same murkiness trudged up, as that hypnotic rhythm guitar plays an integral role throughout. If Only It Was Warmth is a moment in time where anger has been drained, efforts have been drained and what’s left is deep sadness. Krule laments, “Keep running out of space for your mistakes and “walked two hours across empty space / To fill the void,” almost to drive home the cold harsh reality he is now feeling against a doting partner seemingly capable of loving him back.
A true smearing of peculiarity in the face of ambience, it is almost the perfect soundtrack for what should be played on the very day we settle on the dusty red rocks of Mars. A Doomsday monologue smeared most gloomy of London jazz works the over-populated capital has to offer.
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