When I first heard of Superfeather 10 years ago, it was told told like a secret with wide eyes.
I understood them to be angry poor musos in the tropics making mystic math.
One of them was a boxer, where the namesake of the band came from.
I knew them all from free-form anarchic improv shows.
Jazz kids making punk records, or the other way around
Endless side projects and abandoned bands.
Through all that Superfeather stuck, too indifferent to any sort of success to fail.
Everyone hears the angles in the music, but not quick enough to stop their necks snapping out of time.
Beyond the ferociously sharp corners though, there’s crunchy waveforms. Long looping temples of rhythm.
We’re dropped into watery tunnels of sound on a quivering board, crouching to fit into the closing circle before the waves above our head chandelier and shatter into sunlight.
Superfeather do have angles yes, but their angles have have blistering edges that warp into microtonal, Fibonacci and Sheehan sequences then it curls into fractals and hieroglyphics. Then they begin smashing the temple apart with axes of static and cymbal, all with the feckless self-sabotage energy of a fatally wounded convict mid-police chase.
There’s deep respect for chaos.
An unrestrained romance for anarchy.
Wormholes for disciplined musicianship that has climbed the mountain and destroyed the flag.
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