In addition to its long and tasty history as a table condiment, salt was used extensively by the ancient Egyptians during the mummification process. And it's perhaps with this idea of cured preservation in mind that NYC's Mouthus present their fourth (or so) full-length album, The Long Salt. Using a brutish selection of electronics, busted guitar, percussion, and time-collapsed vocals, the duo of Brian Sullivan and Nate Nelson here sound as though they intend to stun their unsuspecting listeners then embalm them in a boggy avant-rock brine.
As with contemporaries like Hair Police or Sightings, Mouthus appear to simply enjoy rock dynamics too much to participate entirely in a faithless, full-scale deconstruction. Their 2005 Troubleman album Slow Globes was one of the most inspired free-rock artifacts of recent vintage, incorporating acoustic instruments and even a deranged interpretation of Fleetwood Mac's "Storms" into the duo's brutal yet microscopically attuned psychedelic mayhem. For their follow-up, however, Mouthus have thickened their tongues and dampened their precision, and the resulting work is embedded with some of their sludgiest, least navigable arrangements to date.
In addition to the release of Slow Globes, 2005 saw Nate and Brian collaborate with members of Double Leopards in the volcanic quartet White Rock. And the savage influence of the Leopards definitely seems to have rubbed off here on mulching, drone-heavy tracks like "The Burns of Them" or "What Knife Say." Carried by hyper-attenuated sheets of delayed vocals and outstretched electronics, "The Burns of Them" is as close as Mouthus have come to forsaking all rock-based propulsion, with Nelson's maltreated drum kit buried somewhere out back with a rag in its mouth. Elsewhere, however, "WL" reduces the post-punk formations of the Birthday Party or the Fall down to a raw skeleton of dangling nerves, filling the air with indecipherable jargon and concussive drumbeats that ring like pistol shots.
Guest musician Samara Lubelski (Hall of Fame, Tower Recordings) adds molten strands of violin and vocal to the cyclonic hum of "Ghetto Stairs", while "Ziggurats" spins like a broken flywheel, studded with the sort of stray electronic particles that might be cast off by Whitehouse. Yet throughout their earth-eating frenzy, Mouthus' idiosyncratic but graspable rhythms and murky riffs seep in under the floorboards. Beneath its heavy curtain of Dead C-inspired distortion, "What Knife Say" courses with a surprisingly refined near-melodic grace, as Sullivan's garbled, impassioned vocal directives remain just a head above the music's choppy currents. And while The Long Salt might ultimately scan as little more than a lateral move away from the obscured peaks of Slow Globes, an occasional dip in its astringent waters should be enough to illustrate its cleansing and restorative powers.
