Bark Psychosis

The fleeting existence of Bark Psychosis left rock with one of its most precious treasures of the Nineties. Before their unexpected return in 2004 with "Codename:Dustsucker", in fact, "Hex" remained for many years the only proper album by this peculiar British outfit, which managed the feat of "sublimating" the psychedelic lessons of the past into avant-garde sonic miniatures, at the crossroads of ambient textures and chamber music.

Formed in 1990 and built around the duo of Graham Sutton (vocals and guitar) and Daniel Gish (keyboards), the band produced a string of singles, later collected on "Independency". Then, in 1994, they decided to take on the challenge of a full-length. The result is the astonishing hybrid of sounds, noise and silence known as "Hex". Yes, silence too, because the role played by pauses in Bark Psychosis's music shouldn't be underestimated. Sutton himself explained the reasoning: "If you live in a noisy city like London, the last thing you want to hear is more noise, so we came to discover that silence can be far more powerful than any noise."

Here, then, is a scientific use of hesitation, of slowing down, of stasis, not as a mere stylistic exercise but as a decisive factor in building an authentically "psychedelic" sound. The destination, however, is not the artificial paradises of Baudelairean memory, but rather a waking nightmare or, at best, a painful catharsis. Take, for instance, the overture of "Loom", with that classically-tinged intro built on delicate guitar arpeggios, piano chimes and a languid, breathtaking fretless bass, before more sinuous, funk-inflected electronic rhythms take over. It's an opening so moving it brings to mind the most celestial scenery of Talk Talk's "Spirit Of Eden".

But in the sonic vortices of Bark Psychosis, it's not hard to make out the distant echo of shoegaze too – My Bloody Valentine above all – that noisy yet melodic strain of rock that defined the British scene of the early Nineties. On top of that, the Sutton-led band manages to add an exquisitely jazz sensibility and a leaning towards ambient music, two elements that help stretch the original melodic core into sprawling jam sessions. That's the case with "A Street Scene", which opens slow, with a hypnotically monotone pulse, before taking shape amid mournful trumpets, jazz-funk riffs and dissonant guitars, surging into a breathtaking crescendo and finally dissolving slowly into a lake of diluted chords, drifting into territory close to a kind of chamber neo-jazz.

Across the various stages of the jams there's never any discontinuity, only a fluid succession of arrangements. Gorgeous keyboard textures and Sutton's crystalline guitar take centre stage in "Absent Friend", which spills into a sinister ending trailed by a long streak of menacing hisses. The nocturnal atmosphere of "Big Shot" is tinged with dark funk shades, with a sly dub bass carving its way through banks of "ambient" fog.

Perhaps, though, the masterpiece within the masterpiece is "Fingerspit", a beguiling alchemy of minimalism and noise, anger and romance. A crepuscular ballad that tries to peer into the silence, through the few lights and the many shadows. The impalpable guitar phrases, the harsh dissonances, the faint piano chimes weave a sonic filigree as ethereal as it is tense and anguished. In the end, the music seems to inexorably fade out, dissolving into a scene of bleak urban desolation ("every night/ streets leave their mark on my skin.../ I can't find any way out"). "Eyes And Smiles" follows a similar arc: limpid guitar arpeggios and mellotron touches combine with the mournful notes of a trumpet and Mark Simnett's full-bodied drumming, before the track crumbles into an endless sequence of quivering keyboards and the fanfare roars back to life.

The record closes in style, with the nearly ten minutes of "Pendulum Man", an entirely instrumental sonic spell that seems to serve as the soundtrack to an imaginary film. It's probably the most ambitious track of the lot: piano and string reverberations merge with cosmic keyboard hisses, in a soundscape steeped in the most ecstatic contemplation. It's a collage of liquid textures, bordering on new age, that seep gently into the mind, instilling a deep sense of serenity. A sweet catalepsy to surrender to completely. The outcome isn't so far from the most "transcendent" moments of David Sylvian and Slowdive.

The tracks on "Hex" aren't songs, but pure sonic weave. The shoegaze and dream-pop lesson, that typically British taste for sprawling sonic constructions that float freely like nebulae, weightless and formless, combines in Bark Psychosis with the early seeds of post-rock (the "free-form" attitude, the reclaiming of old-school jams, though stripped of all redundancy) and with the legacy of the languidly anaemic rock of bands like Galaxie 500, Spacemen 3 and Mazzy Star. The result is a one-of-a-kind record, one that absorbs all these influences and clothes them in fresh energy, casting a bright trail over the years to come.

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26/10/2006