For the trio have proffered an innately challenging release, and not merely in the disputation as to whether or not it may even be considered a 'live album'. Branding it thus serves to intrinsically cheapen the work in an attempt to contextualise the incontestably unclassifiable and, moreover, given that no studio version has been buried in the deep, dark grooves of vinyl nor committed to churning tape we've no reference point beyond this warped and transporting documentation of a balmy Friday night in May to which we may recur. Transverse is however a record centred upon the there and then and although then may now be many months previous, its components may be smoothly transposed to the here and now.
V1 commences with a persistent thud. No spectatorial screech pollution contaminates this barely accentuated, tribalistic rhythm although it is swiftly licked by the faint wisp of static; by the contorted cries of crisply modulated synthesiser; by Mephistophelean snarls. It is but a bestial delight, the glisten of its sharpened incisors enticing yet entirely primed to sever wandering attentions or previously constructed conceptions of what music may be. It is self-explanatorially abstruse, utterly abstract, absolutely arcane thus some may instantaneously regard, or perhaps disregard it as some form of abrasive anti-music yet to clasp such an opinion is to discredit what is one of the most exacting, yet ultimately rewarding records of recent times. As it eventually grinds to a jerking halt, it's as though it recedes to slumber out of necessity and unabridged exhaustion, and a second or two's applause here serves to humanise the otherwise unremittingly mechanical industrialisation of Transverse. V2 is yet more metronomically robust still yet it's loaded with tightly coiled electronic impulses and exasperated groans and burbles, the closest we've thus far drifted to discernible vocal interaction. However in line with its surroundings, these mangled human interjections are rendered chameleonic for although perceivable, they're hardly identifiable and consequently purely add greater texture to the record's stainless, steely production. It continues to rattle and hum over ten strident minutes before giving way to whooping that's considerably more committed than before. Entranced, we (now) and seemingly they (then) are quite irrevocably under. These momentary lapses of applause also serve to demarcate the points where one take ends and the next begins but with the four arrangements so stylistically similar, they blur into one superlative whole ominous enough to inveigle and promptly envelope the mind, extracting inveterate consternation as it distorts. V3 is as Aboriginal gurgle bubbled through starry synth glisten and banshee moan, whilst V4 slowly clambers to heady climax of visceral pulse and skittering menace.
So unabatingly disquieting is Transverse that it may defibrillate the inner circuitries of the brain although in amongst the throb and grizzle, something truly great lies in wait...
