Thomas Kuratli returns for his second album as PYRIT. Control explores what it's like to be locked inside a machine drawing from influences like Portishead, David Lynch, and The Haxan Cloak. Watch out Charlie Brooker, there's a new creative stylishly stidying the horrors and wonders of technology.
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Pyrit has lovingly compared this creation ‘Control’ to both maze and prison, and I’m inclined to give him a reluctant co-sign: his work is heavy on the queasy and long on horror house fiction, a kind of Blanck Mass meets It creation of looming dread. Except when he sings: then, all spells are broken, his Ray Wilson vocal guiding us through the dark like a sudden instant of blue light.
A collection of pulsating but submerged beatwork and cavernous rubble drone, ‘Control’ always feels far from the surface, its production taking us levels deep away from familiar surroundings: the textural sustain of “Wolgaschlepper” makes every beat stomping above it sound far, far away, the writing organ chords that eventually appear sounding like an anthem for the earth’s core.
When Pyrit sings, the record’s illusions are shattered; his voice is human (largely because, you know, he is one) and against the grain of this record’s isolationist evil. I could listen to his thunderous sonic textures and broken down dance music all day; I’d just rather he wasn’t reminding us there was a way out.
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