MMMD – Andromache


The current upsurge in cassette releases – how humans love to go back to the origins of their decay after shouldering the fallibility of promised perfection – gifts us today with a new work by Ilios and Nikos Veliotis. You already know that my impartiality with MMMD/Mohammad is proclaimed along the lines of “everybody kneel down at the altar of hulking subsonics”. Therefore, don’t expect too much of a cynical scanning here.

A bit of mystery wraps Andromache, the core of which was recorded over a five-year span on desecrated pianos. The eventual repercussions of these sessions are somewhat dedicated to an equally obscure friend and, citing the label’s preamble, “culminated inside a death struck apartment in the south of Athens”. Whatever the rationale behind the music, don’t you dare questioning the duo’s proficiency in setting the molecular innards of individual resonance in “full activity” mode. Either by an inch of linear movement or through the unfathomable influence of an extramundane pressure, the listening subject’s own sensations are invariably projected in the cracks that separate presentiment from invincibility.

The piano’s reflections, which – to my perhaps failing memory – had never been utilized by MMMD before, delineate indeed the substantial divergence in this offering. The instrument replaces Veliotis’ bowed mantras in the palette we grew accustomed to, agglutinating with Ilios’ “I-feel-the-earth-move-under-my-feet” (*) sinewaves in a tremendous interflow. In a big box of frequencies waiting to be stimulated into motility, the lower region of the keyboard represents – ça va sans dire – the main field of action for a respectable droning chivalry. The paradigmatic track in that sense is the 22-minute “Tromakton (Kalbak)”, a cross of everything in between rumble and hum that will immensely delight the addicts. However, the impenetrability of a black jewel such as “Grad (Kalbak)” stands on comparable spiritual intensities, leaving ample spaces for the mind to decide whether the end is nigh for its marriage with the body while generating a protective lacquer against the inexorable ordinariness of daily interlocutors.

MMMD make mincemeat of the wannabes who call themselves and their 10-second reverb bullshit “dark”. In front of this type of substance, those people look more and more like Casper.

(*) Yes, it’s a Carole King quote.

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