Channelling a similar blackened doom-pop streak currently found plastered all over Brit fanzines and underpasses alike, Wesley Eisold’s Cold Cave are illusive, emotive and emotionally stunted all at once. Billed apprehensively optimistically as something of a catch-them-while-you-can band at Bristol's exquisitely emptied Louisiana, the trio cower cavernously behind keyboards, synthetically reproducing the schizophrenic regurgitated retro of their debut outing on the hallowed Matador label, Love Comes Close. And at times, twitching soles and awkward glances aside, a discomforting relationship flourishes, flittering frequently between adoration and disgust; the thundering post-Gameboy synths of Life Magazine formulate the eye of the storm that sees the seemingly crumbling legacy of Toronto noiseniks Crystal Castles restructured to pulverisingly grandiose effect, whilst the minimalist clicks and reverberated tricks of title-track Love Comes Close encapsulate the painfully pleasing sensations of entrapment within an air-conditioning unit in full swing. Yet like fast-forwarding through Leone tumbleweed scenes, skimming hastily and haphazardly over Morricone soundtracks, the leather-clad trio flash past in a hazy abyss of stylish substance and synth abuse. Add a dash of aggression, a touch more melody and a Fall Out Boy chorus or two (Eisold, there must be one or two still stored away up there) and these cavemen and women may venture out into the light of day.
Stepping Into The Harsh Light Of Day.
Channelling a similar blackened doom-pop streak currently found plastered all over Brit fanzines and underpasses alike, Wesley Eisold’s Cold Cave are illusive, emotive and emotionally stunted all at once. Billed apprehensively optimistically as something of a catch-them-while-you-can band at Bristol's exquisitely emptied Louisiana, the trio cower cavernously behind keyboards, synthetically reproducing the schizophrenic regurgitated retro of their debut outing on the hallowed Matador label, Love Comes Close. And at times, twitching soles and awkward glances aside, a discomforting relationship flourishes, flittering frequently between adoration and disgust; the thundering post-Gameboy synths of Life Magazine formulate the eye of the storm that sees the seemingly crumbling legacy of Toronto noiseniks Crystal Castles restructured to pulverisingly grandiose effect, whilst the minimalist clicks and reverberated tricks of title-track Love Comes Close encapsulate the painfully pleasing sensations of entrapment within an air-conditioning unit in full swing. Yet like fast-forwarding through Leone tumbleweed scenes, skimming hastily and haphazardly over Morricone soundtracks, the leather-clad trio flash past in a hazy abyss of stylish substance and synth abuse. Add a dash of aggression, a touch more melody and a Fall Out Boy chorus or two (Eisold, there must be one or two still stored away up there) and these cavemen and women may venture out into the light of day.
