THE INVISIBLE - Rispah

The name as a premonition. An isolation from the headlines that matter, perhaps sought after, perhaps imposed by fate. A little applause, some of it heartfelt, but mostly flying under the radar. A progressive curling-up into spaces far from barroom chatter, from screamed hype, a disinterest in self-promotion; born of presumption, of boredom, the apotheosis of an almost mocking self-assurance? Few photos, always the same pose, never a smile, biographical details traceable only after exhausting digging. Music capable of absorbing countless influences, from post-rock to post-punk, that you could dance to if your legs weren't tied and your shoes weren't made of stone. Never a raised shield, never a scream, rather a continuous whisper, yet 24-carat soul, a bit like Seal deciding to reinterpret Radiohead.

A self-titled debut just three years ago and an immediate Mercury Prize nomination, critics enchanted by an extravagant mix of wave, rhythms with jazz memories, ambient noise, soiled electronics, melodies that draw you in but maybe not, imploding rhythms, the apotheosis of intellectualism lent to pop. Still, a tangible object, to love or reject, with no notion of a hit single. Today the follow-up arrives, with similar coordinates, but the material is even hazier, the air more rarefied, the score even more ethereal. You venture inside and struggle to move, sore, breathless, even frightened, resistant to every passage. “Rispah” feels like a threat, it's oppressive, nebulous, and then, suddenly, it opens up to bursts of sunlight, immediately denied again. And yet you keep going, because the twelve tracks crafted by Dave Okumu, Leo Taylor and Tom Herbert seem to hide ever new secrets as the minutes go by. It's like a treasure hunt you don't feel like tackling because it's too hard, because the sign announcing it mentions no prize at all — you have to build it yourself.

Getting inside “Rispah” then takes on the traits of a conquest. And it's only when you're on the verge of losing patience that the first solutions to the mystery begin to surface. From the kraut ragga approach of “Generational” to the melodic openings of “Wings”, from the hypnotic atmospheres of “Lifeline” to the dreamlike spoken word of “What Happened”, to the bridges that turn into choruses in “The Great Wound”, and all around, layers upon layers of noise, interlocking notes, complex vocal arrangements. And yet the path remains linear, minimal to the point of obsession, never indulgent, discretion as corporate policy, any form of showing off denied. One could speculate that for the London trio, not even the individual compositions matter as much as the overall vision.

“The Wall” is indeed an impassable, slippery wall, hiding something, but it's almost pointless trying to climb over it — it never ends, with that indecipherable guitar accompaniment, the brushed cymbals, the distant hisses, the piano that comes in and leaves you feeling surrounded, up to the explosion as longed-for as it is held back by the out-of-tune synths. “Rispah” could be the manifesto of something, assuming we haven't already torn it up.

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24/06/2012