In late 2011, a handful of instrumental tracks under the account name Evian Christ showed up on YouTube. A random, anonymous person putting music online is something that happens thousands of times a day, but Evian Christ’s productions got around, quickly, on the strength of “Who is this?” raves from publications like Dummy and a number of blogs. Returning to them more than two years later, these early tracks, especially the startling and forceful “Fuck It None of Y’all Don’t Rap”, hinted at serious potential, even if they didn’t quite congeal into a distinctive voice. But one important person heard something in them: Kanye West used some of Evian Christ’s music to construct “I’m in It” from Yeezus, and suddenly, the kid who posted beats to YouTube had a hand in one of the most sonically adventurous records of the year.
Shortly after that initial burst of interest, Evian Christ (real name: Joshua Leary) signed to Tri Angle, who assembled his early tracks onto an EP. The label was the logical home for his music in part because his path was similar to that of Tri Angle’s Clams Casino. But while Clams Casino sent his tracks to rappers and only later presented himself as an instrumental auteur, Evian Christ, despite the contribution to Yeezus, has been perceived more as producer of standalone electronic tracks. The Waterfall EP, his first release of new music constructed while people actually know who he is, finds him straddling the worlds of the functional collaborative production and discrete statement.
What’s most striking about Waterfall, hearing it next to those earliest tracks, is how much bigger his music has become. The early tracks eventually collected on the Kings and Them were nimble and spacious, touching on genres like two-step that allow for tricky stop-start programming. From Waterfall’s opening “Salt Carousel” forward, it’s clear that Leary is trying to rattle all the way back to the cheap seats. The is essentially big-stage EDM, with colossal surges of bass and thick, serrated synth lines evocative of the maximalism of TNGHT and Hudson Mohawke. It’s the type of music that makes most sense at massive volume, with builds and drops whose meaning becomes clear only when the sound is completely overwhelming. And in terms of sound design and construction, Waterfall has much to admire. The music is bursting with color and the surges are palpable, and you can almost see the legions of head-banging festival-goers whenever tracks hit a big peak.
The problem is that the four tracks here have a total of about three ideas. Three well executed ideas, no doubt, but it’s still not enough to make the record feel like a complete experience. Once you’ve heard one track—and each is in its own way a banger—you’ve heard all four. So when experienced outside of the massive soundsystem and communal experience of a live event, Waterfall comes over as something closer to a beat tape—when listening to it, I even find myself unconsciously inserting the ghost of a Danny Brown verse, something to transform the Grade-A sonics into a track with an arc and some tension, a piece of music with a few surprises or twists. Impressive as it can be in small doses, Waterfall as a whole plows ahead like a WWI-era tank, heavy and lumbering and powerful but pretty much limited to a single direction.
