The Death Of Quickspace

Long may they drone...

There is, as any productivity conscious factory foreman will tell you, a certain comfort in repetition; a curious relief to be eked from the ashen monotony of the everyday. And here, on [a]Quickspace[/a]’s third album, it seems Tom Cullinan‘s Krautrock disciples have hit upon a motorik El Dorado – a place where tedium is transcended by zealous determination, and glacial repetition becomes a thing of hushed and haunted beauty.

Like most drone addicts, their adherence to Krautrock’s dusty dictum can occasionally grate (‘Gloriana’ recalls Blur‘s overkeen saddling of Pavement‘s slumberous aesthetic) but [a]Quickspace[/a]’s enthusiasm soon vanquishes that genre’s starched constrictions. For although Krautrock is clearly Cullinan‘s bread and butter, ‘The Death…’‘s real sustenance lies in the Londoners’ hearty embrace of garage rock’s [I]joie de vivre [/I] – a refreshingly raw cogency that energises each of their motorik rambles. It’s this flash’n’grab briskness that rescues tracks such as the 11-minute-long ‘Climbing A Hill’ from Teutonic po-facery – allowing a pop-scented warmth to breeze through their otherwise pristine grooves. ‘The Death…’s burnished centrepiece is ‘They Shoot Horse Don’t They,’ a Yo La Tengo-shaped trinket that pushes metronomic repetition to deliciously hypnotic extremes: a triumph of melody over monotony, emotion over art.

Long may they drone.