Back to the Future the Ride's heady no-fi gloaming

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Not that Marty McFly or Doc Brown would ever willingly rock Back to the Future the Ride in the DeLorean or anything, but this one-man Foot Village side project is definitely onto something almost Tibetan-monkish. In just shy of twenty minutes, this debut -- titled, hilariously, Back to the Future The Ride The Ride (grab it free and legal here) -- opens up a portal into a living, breathing netherworld of enveloping mouth-breathe drone. ​
Shivering, winnowing synths? Yep. Fuzzy, nasty barnyard riffage? Sure. The sense that we're eavesdropping on God's own Buddha Machine? You betcha.And the often indistinct sonics on display here -- think Avarus covering Mouthus on the day money finally begins to grow on trees -- have a tendency to slip the bounds of temporal continuity, creating the sense that much more time is elapsing than is actually the case, so it feels as though you're spending eons dipping your toes into these splendiferous pools of ragged wonder.

"Sitting Under The Pyramid of Silence" segues from zilch to fractal, spiderwebbed neon lattices in almost the time it takes to read the headline of this article, snowballing into a spin-cycle core of aural blacklight that seems to contain countles glowing strands: grave, thrumming ohmmmms, marvelously throbbing held keyboard chords, high-strung, Lite-Brite tones lifted from a Robert A.A. Lowe composition. It shifts from blind self-indulgence to cruel misanthropic indifference to melodic intrigue, sometimes before you even realize that the shifts are occurring.

Meanwhile, "Aubergine and Life" leans heavily on a stark'n'stately four-note theme that registers as a cross between a minimalist corporate jingle (think Intel's call sign) and some sort of tribal tonal refrain, sheathed in slithery echo and descending, ultimately, into a hyperactive halogen waterfall.

It's the ideal soundtrack to watching the frost melt on your windshield while waiting for your car to warm up on a February week morning. Environment, 0; you, 1.

HT: Noiseweek.