The first cut starts and you know you’re in front of them: one of those compositions that build themselves, that emerge from the rubble, like the eternal “Blue Line Swinger” from Yo La Tengo (that archetype), with Warren Ellis’ viola growing until it goes wild, Jim White’s drums entering into a slow rhythm until they gather cruising speed and Mick Turner’s guitar making sparks fly. They are the inimitable Dirty Three, twelve years after their last album, Toward the Low Sun (2012), resigned to the fact that a project that began as a core project is now secondary due to the obligations that feed them (mainly Nick Cave, for Ellis). Don’t expect any major news in this ninth album, with a revealing title and the opposite of cynicism (to the point that it reminded me of that old mainstream hit from 1988 by the duo Climie Fisher, originally written for Rod Stewart).
Are there six songs? that share a statement and run between four and ten minutes, only distinguished by their numbering, which stand as a recognizable combination of delicacy and ferocity. The second is a litany led by the piano in the service of a dissonant, drifting melody. The third refines the minimalism of its formula and invites drowsiness and mental disconnection, let’s face it, even though it shows the ascendancy that the Australian trio always had over bands like Godspeed You! Black Emperor (their role as veiled precursors of post rock is enough for an entire article). The fourth reveals a somewhat more cinematic pulse and more handholds to hold onto due to the profile of its disfigured melody. It is in the crescendos of the fifth and sixth (six and ten minutes, respectively) where the best qualities of the equilateral triangle emerge, which we would gladly come to see live if they dare to have new dates here.
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