Victim of Space is Metalux's first album for 5 Rue Christine, following releases on specialty noise labels Hanson and Load in addition to several self-issued CD-Rs. Any time spent worrying that this latest label switch might blunt the female duo's anarchic onslaught, however, is evidently time that should've been used more constructively, as these eight tracks-- whose 33-minute running time straddles the blurry line separating EP from LP-- comprise some of the twosome's spiniest, least-embraceable material yet.
Using a rapidly decaying assortment of analog electronics, inflamed guitars, splintered tape loops, and inscrutable vocals, the veteran duo of M.V. Carbon and J. Gräf belong to the growing contingent of noise peddlers whose work bears ever less direct relation to standardized rock-based (or jazz, or electronic) forms. While portions of their 2004 Load album Waiting for Armadillo occasionally alluded to traceable forward-moving rhythms and brooding No Wave song structures, here Metalux present their unstable sonic collages in an even further advanced state of decomposition, showing little regard for listener comfort or comprehension.
The mysteries begin right there in the title: what Victim, of what Space? Clearly Metalux do not intend to portray themselves as mere victims (or bystanders) of their art, as throughout the album the two serve as willful agents of their music's constant mutation, sculpting their sound as forcibly as any act inside or out of the noise beehive. Theirs is an inorganic science; the album's short attentioned anti-grooves feel ungoverned by precision or continuity, and so bear little resemblance to more drone-centric peers like Double Leopards, the locomotive pummel of Lightening Bolt or even the prolonged disrepair of a typically patterned Wolf Eyes composition.
"Sunny Krakow", which matches distorted punk vocals to unanchored Harry Pussy-ish guitar, is about as familiar as Metalux is willing to get here, as the vocals dare an almost-melodic hook or two before the guitar scrabbles noisily away over the rocks. Likewise "Tremor Loss" begins with a rather refined patch of (what sounds like) harpsichord until legions of tiny, insect-like sounds swarm to nibble the piece to confetti. Throughout the length of theatrical cuts like "Shipwreck" or "Shelldrum", Carbon and Gräf are stubbornly reluctant to allow their audience to become attached to any one noise, creating instead an ever-shifting mosaic of serrated fragments beneath their cryptic, always-just-shy-of-earshot lyrics. As compelling and curiously unknowable on 10th listen as on the first, it doesn't take much time spent with Victim of Space before you might begin to suspect that the true object of its title is the person sitting in your chair, listening to your stereo.
