Rocker (feedbot)
Gold Member
Time. You’re thinking about time. Thinking about it running down, thinking about out it running out. Memento Mori; Remember you will die.
It starts so simply. Feedback squeals through the speakers, then the ticking sound of drumsticks. It’s a constant, a stressful reminder, time is slipping by, and Gaupa are in no hurry. Almost three minutes have elapsed before Emma Näslund’s vocals enter and the EP kicks into gear – patience is rewarded – the tension breaks – ‘Lion’s Thorn’ opens out with a riff pointed enough to carve a headstone. The power though, that comes from Näslund’s voice. It’s husky, beautiful, high and haunting, except when it’s not, and she is so very aware of that – the performance brings Bjork to mind, being both startling and absolutely compelling, every bit as mesmerising as the music surrounding her.
This strange, thrilling odyssey has four distinct parts and, with the stage set, it leads almost directly into the muscular ‘Heavy Lord’. It’s a mix of stoner rock, doom, and metal, blended into a light-tasting vintage. Doom-laden drums beat a funeral march while the guitars writhe like the snake that drove humanity from Eden, a sound that’s neither noisy nor heavy but could still rupture your spleen. There’s a darkness too, but it’s not funereal. It’s fragile and finite, but implies something is lurking beneath the surface – the end always feels uncertain.
Memory. You’re thinking about captured moments, a way to hold on. Thinking about the sound. Karl Daniel Lidén engineered the record, but what you notice is his absence. It feels so real and honest and practically smells of tube amplifiers and magnetic tape. Think of Graveyard, or Blues Pills, a sound from the past that you might call ‘classic’. The band describe it as ‘psychedelic’ but it’s neither trippy nor druggy, there’s no mushroom haze or waft of colourful smoke, just the grounded march of memory, recalling 1970’s rock or the modern progressive bands Giant Walker or Hypophora.
Thinking about loss, and this being the band’s first release as a four-piece after the departure of guitarist Daniel Nygren. From the outside this appears to be a bad thing, but although the creative process has changed, the spark burns bright. Often, the music feels inspired. Especially as the journey continues with the lurching ‘Ten or Twelve’ where the repeating riff and ominous, plodding drums give it the shambling, awkward energy of the recently deceased.
Maybe you’re thinking about time running out. As ‘Elastic Sleep’ enters its final stretch and Näslund tells you it’s “like clockwork”, you notice the ticking, the ticking, constant march. You hear the careful, deliberate structure and the sheer magnificence of the songs. You realise something; this isn’t an EP about death, it’s an abstract rebirth. It’s the sound of a band rediscovering themselves, and it’s incredible.
Remember, you will die – your time will run out but ‘FYR’ is a fantastic way to spend twenty-four precious minutes.
IAN KENWORTHY
It starts so simply. Feedback squeals through the speakers, then the ticking sound of drumsticks. It’s a constant, a stressful reminder, time is slipping by, and Gaupa are in no hurry. Almost three minutes have elapsed before Emma Näslund’s vocals enter and the EP kicks into gear – patience is rewarded – the tension breaks – ‘Lion’s Thorn’ opens out with a riff pointed enough to carve a headstone. The power though, that comes from Näslund’s voice. It’s husky, beautiful, high and haunting, except when it’s not, and she is so very aware of that – the performance brings Bjork to mind, being both startling and absolutely compelling, every bit as mesmerising as the music surrounding her.
This strange, thrilling odyssey has four distinct parts and, with the stage set, it leads almost directly into the muscular ‘Heavy Lord’. It’s a mix of stoner rock, doom, and metal, blended into a light-tasting vintage. Doom-laden drums beat a funeral march while the guitars writhe like the snake that drove humanity from Eden, a sound that’s neither noisy nor heavy but could still rupture your spleen. There’s a darkness too, but it’s not funereal. It’s fragile and finite, but implies something is lurking beneath the surface – the end always feels uncertain.
Memory. You’re thinking about captured moments, a way to hold on. Thinking about the sound. Karl Daniel Lidén engineered the record, but what you notice is his absence. It feels so real and honest and practically smells of tube amplifiers and magnetic tape. Think of Graveyard, or Blues Pills, a sound from the past that you might call ‘classic’. The band describe it as ‘psychedelic’ but it’s neither trippy nor druggy, there’s no mushroom haze or waft of colourful smoke, just the grounded march of memory, recalling 1970’s rock or the modern progressive bands Giant Walker or Hypophora.
Thinking about loss, and this being the band’s first release as a four-piece after the departure of guitarist Daniel Nygren. From the outside this appears to be a bad thing, but although the creative process has changed, the spark burns bright. Often, the music feels inspired. Especially as the journey continues with the lurching ‘Ten or Twelve’ where the repeating riff and ominous, plodding drums give it the shambling, awkward energy of the recently deceased.
Maybe you’re thinking about time running out. As ‘Elastic Sleep’ enters its final stretch and Näslund tells you it’s “like clockwork”, you notice the ticking, the ticking, constant march. You hear the careful, deliberate structure and the sheer magnificence of the songs. You realise something; this isn’t an EP about death, it’s an abstract rebirth. It’s the sound of a band rediscovering themselves, and it’s incredible.
Remember, you will die – your time will run out but ‘FYR’ is a fantastic way to spend twenty-four precious minutes.
IAN KENWORTHY