Makeness is the name of a hilly ridge located south of Edinburgh, near the stone-barn studio where Kyle Molleson records his music. Certainly, the fact that the studio belongs to his father makes it an attractive (and presumably cost-effective) destination, but then Molleson is naturally at home in isolated spaces. Though he’s now based in London (following an extended stint in Leeds), he spent the first 11 years of his life growing up on a tiny island in the Scottish highlands, raised in a family of folk musicians. The dark, dissonant electronic rock he creates as Makeness bears little relation to those fife-band roots, but it is nonetheless emblematic of an artist who has spent his life adapting from rural to urban spaces and back again. Claustrophobic and expansive in equal measure, Makeness’ mélange of trembling melodies and strobe-lit intensity suggests a sheltered soul being exposed to inner-city life for the first time and absorbing the shocks to his system.
Loud Patterns isn’t just Molleson’s first full-length release as Makeness, it’s his first to make his vocals the central compositional feature after flirting with pop forms on two largely instrumental EPs. Molleson cites Caribou’s Swim as a transformative influence, in terms of demonstrating how concise songwriting and electronic experimentation can co-exist. Certainly, there are parallels to be drawn between Dan Snaith’s evolution and Molleson’s own: Makeness has followed Caribou’s path from hermetic solo studio savant to rock-band ringleader, and the two share a similarly soft, vaporous vocal style that infuses their productions with a vulnerable human core. But if the two artists work from similar blueprints, they use very different materials to realize their visions—where Caribou orbits the intersection of psychedelia and house, Makeness builds robust songs out of industrial and techno inputs.
Loud Patterns’ opening title track sets a tense, suffocating mood that rarely relents over the course of the album. “It’s a mess, but I’ve been told there’s no way out,” Molleson sings obliquely yet ominously—and, as such, he delights in piling on disorienting textures to give the impression of walls closing in. Throughout Loud Patterns, Molleson takes great care to build up his rhythmic motifs, only to do everything in his power to destabilize their foundations: He subjects the taut techno throb of “Gold Star” to a sustained laser-beam synth attack as if trying to blow up a boss-level spaceship in a videogame, while the 4/4 thrust of the instrumental “Rough Moss” is gradually overcome by blasts of distortion and brain-scrambling oscillations.
Though Molleson’s vocals are the most prominent feature of Loud Patterns, he’s not one for in-depth lyrical narratives—be it the haunted “Day Old Death” or the atypically playful bounce of “14 Drops,” he opts for minimalist phrasing and repeated incantations as if mimicking the looped vocal snippets on classic house records. But his melodic graces are given more room to flourish on “Stepping Out of Sync,” whose smooth chorus hook and luminous synths suggest Rhye’s sultry soul given a Junior Boys remix. Fitting for an album that frequently channels the foreboding atmosphere of Mezzanine-era Massive Attack, Loud Patterns yields a “Teardrop” to call its own in “Who Am I to Follow Love,” a tropical pop reprieve with a soothing guest vocal from Nancy Andersen of London indie-R&B group Babeheaven.
But for all the songwriting strides Molleson makes on Loud Patterns, the album’s carefully sculpted beatscapes ultimately result in a reactionary act of noise. The closing “Motorcycle Idling” is a most unsubtle display of truth in advertising, with a thundering barrage of distorted electronics that approximates the engine rev of a chopper. Molleson has said he enjoys recording out in the country because he doesn’t have to worry about pissing off any neighbors, and “Motorcycle Idling” is the most devious, gratuitous exercise of that freedom, with all the queasy undercurrents bubbling up throughout the record being unleashed in a dam-burst of woofer-blasting anarchy. Sometimes the best way to capture the clamor and chaos of the big city is to head out to the sticks.
