The likely lads return with their first album in 11 years, but is it a Libs classic?
London N1 Scala
As [a]Faultline[/a], [B]David Kosten[/B]'s material is paranoid and claustrophobic, a strange cerebral brew concocted in the solitary confines of his studio...
Which is why it's reassuring to see him - looking fairly healthy but nervous, the man who taps people's phone calls for his art - actually attempting to relive his vulnerable works for a crowd accustomed to life's more abrasive sounds.
With Faultline, it's the not-knowing that disturbs. We realise that new track 'Mute' hangs tentatively until a bearded jazz-boho blows it apart with a mightily frazzled trumpet, and that 'Control', nestled in the relative safety of a grazing cello and violin, merely hints at the terrors lurking in Kosten's machine. And yet we're still shocked when the eerie ambience of 'Papercut' is slashed open by tumbling drum'n'bass, or when desperate telephone conversations interrupt the equally schizophrenic 'Partyline Honey'.
Though Kosten hasn't quite exhausted this peculiar seam of his, it's clear he's already (un)settled into an effective niche. His music will soon be selling expensive German cars on television, but you still fear for his sanity when he next enters the studio.
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