It would be wrong to call Damero's music "womanish," as a couple of bloggers have seen fit, but it's accurate to call it intelligent nap music, a designation that puts this artist in line with Mira Calix, disco darling Sally Shapiro, and Damero's label dame, Ellen Allien, to name only a few female contemporaries-- and women do dominate this genre. The reflective lyrics, soothing vocals and cushy beats of so-called INM are not exclusively dancefloor material, if at all. The material rather coaxes fans who may enjoy dancing off the floor and into their own personal thought bubbles-- on a lonely velour couch in some club; in a cocoon of a bedroom or dorm; on a sweaty, breezy cigarette break. Wherever physically, the listener is thrown out of the heightened reality of the DJ's world and enveloped in bemusement, deep breaths, level-headed reason, maybe a few tears and smiles.
The existence of such music annoys many for its deviation from the dancefloor to the posh, candlelit lavatory. In the latter region is where many a sensitive music fan seizes a tangible-- nay, a furry-- form of the nightclub experience. For those who appreciate the staples of house and techno, the music of artists like Martina Topley-Bird, Ellen Allien with her Apparat, Junior Boys, and Damero is either written off as "easy listening," or, to fans, is the after-after-party, the comedown, the hair of the dog. And no club experience is actually necessary. Damero's debut is a perfect example of how the traits of heavyweight dance genres have been appropriated in a way that isn't invasively social, fast-paced, or requiring vertical movement. It requires for the most part only slow, sleepy neural work.
This is the debut for Damero, aka Marit Posch, the sometime promotion clerk at Bpitch Control, and it shows, if only in the numerous labelmate collaborations that make up the album. When young, up-and-coming workhorses like headkit, Zander VT and Nevis Peak appear, Posch's homespun, diaristic bedroom music is whipped through the tech house car wash-- often to delightful effect. But the contrast to Damero's solo cuts is sharp. On collaborations, tempos beef up, melodic layers increase in number, assonances are more pronounced, and beats oscillate in dank, strobing late-night corners. Even the subdued "Passage to Silence," Apparat’s contribution, is branded with the DJ's familiar pulsations and cute, echoed hints of longing. The vicissitudes of industrialized drums, warm, nostalgic vocal whines, and a sad, space-age organ countermelody are the usual endearing, mournful cues-- Apparat's house call-and-responses last heard on Orchestra of Bubbles, his duet with Allien.
Damero still stands out as an individual, however, on some of her collaborations. "Capricorn Saltlick," featuring labelmates Zander VT, is fully discernible from Zander's solo work: in conjunction the three artists create a sinister narrative ("I don't know your name/ I don't know your face/ But I'm waiting for you") with slow, dripping, dark beats, a growling bass line, and a surprising, sparkling synth lead that comes in early and disappears too soon. This full-bodied atmospheric retreat is the nexus of IDM and house and stands apart on the album, but it's one of many examples of Damero's fluidity of vision.
In total, there are five such examples, and cumulatively, they tarnish the solo work, produced by fellow Berliner Henri Hagenow. The gloss of newness and creativity is covered in too many distinct fingerprints. The addictive "Things Gone," featuring headkit, has a slapping, ornery, club-ready intro that falls away to a twinkling, static-filled minute of reflection that is all Damero's own. Like any of the collaborations, it's a welcome addition to the album for its energetic pace, variegated effects, and general danceability, but it's a far cry from the solemnity and cloudy coziness that is Damero's solo work-- most notably, the gorgeous final track, "I Made A Home," driven by a lulling classical guitar. Showing off Damero’s exploratory zeal, her album's guests nonetheless detract from her solo numbers. Their contributions appear to bolster Posch's own laidback aims with a broader accessibility, by way of house-bound rhythms, traditional, attentive melodies and an all-around catchiness. The result is a hodgepodge, a colorful but disparate introductory foray from an artist whose individual evolution nonetheless deserves the public ear.
