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The term "Clathrus" comes to us from a less appealing aspect of modern botany. It refers to the kind of stinkhorn fungus shown above, which - as the name suggests - emits a rather unpleasant odor. It does so in order to attract flies... and thus distribute its spores as widely as possible. The worse the smell, the greater one's procreative ability (a technique unproven among humans).
The sounds emаnating from behind this stage-name, whilst themselves free of any aroma, are therefore unlikely to be either calm or consoling. Sure enough, much of the audio work completed by Clathrus' anonymous lineup has been tagged as lo-fi, psychedelic, and - most interestingly - "digital voodoo." Other online venues extend that dramatic list in terms both predictable and peculiar: "Psyche-folk, freak folk, new weird Russia, folktronica, ambient, minimal, dub, shoegaze, musique concrète," and so forth.
The term "digital voodoo," however, brings us directly back to an implied struggle between man-made digital enterprise and some external, natural threat that needs to be "managed"... in a most unorthodox fashion. What follows, therefore, is a brief investigation into some rather vague, yet disconcerting social forces.
The Clathrus recordings currently available online are replete with forest chatter, scrapyard clatter, and nocturnal scratching. The overall effect is clearly designed to be worrying. How, though, amid these unnamed and ubiquitous noises, might an exponent of techno-voodoo bring some order to bear? What kind of worldview might endure amid unsystematic clamor? One modest webpage operated by Clathrus on a Russian social network includes a subheading dedicated to "Lyrics." Upon opening the tab, we discover a single poem, seemingly composed of randomly generated English snippets - they conform neither to grammatical nor poetic norms.
The text begins (all in lower case): "for a galley/ prospers hillock/ stub up rackets/ agog cropland/ ever dethrone/ protozoa into pestaña frenzy ledge." We're then offered a brief, repeated couplet, which at least includes a modicum of dark humor or self-deprecation: "...act your age/ cut the funny stuff."
for a galley/ prospers hillock/ stub up rackets...
One observer - having read these incantations and their simultaneous dismissal by other folk as immature nonsense - says to the author: "That [two-line] chorus in the middle is a real hit!" Any chance of money-making (i.e., self-deluding) comfort is dismissed with a moribund quip, suggesting that these ambient textures are indeed reflective of something universally nasty. They have nothing in common with primetime, profitable enterprise. Deep within the most innocent or appealing scenarios lies something very dark indeed.
The most recent Clathrus recording (released as "Hasidim Against Shabbat") is entitled "High School Party Mixtape" and comes with the kind of cover art that depicts a final, blissful moment of escapism before adult responsibilities take shape. In actual fact, though, the "Party Mixtape" exists almost exclusively of horribly decelerated mainstream pop - in the best traditions of witch house. The effect is nightmarish. Social threats and burdens spoil the sounds of a high-school ball: children can't even graduate in peace.
It's instructive to compare these efforts to the work of Parabear, also from Moscow. Drawing upon further metaphors of unsettling or umapped territory, the musicians declare their most recent output to be taken "from a bog of experimental sound."
Pitch-black basslines and screeching voices...
Investigations into the ensemble's background produce nothing more than some (very) old posts left at LiveJournal from 2008 and before. Considerable silence, therefore, appears between some infrequent and pithy observations.
One early explanation for that lack of textual output was that pirates had stolen recordings from Parabear's laptops - and then sold them in a Moscow marketplace, where the discs had allegedly been advertised as bootlegs from 30 years before. Quiet why somebody would choose to backdate the recordings - or consider them profitable! - remained a mystery. Nonetheless, Parabear describe for us the legendary racket of which they were once capable: "At that time [in our early career] we were shaking the walls of local community centers with pitch-black basslines and screeching voices..."
As we soon discover, these utterances are designed to mirror the same demonic threats of which Clathrus have already warned us. Many of the images taken from Parabear's web resources are decorated with lo-fi VHS stills, and then given some disturbing titles.
Wandering far from home is evidently not a good idea... as the heroes and heroines of video nasties know well.
Hoping to shock Russian audiences into sober, joyless awareness, the band has been increasingly troubled by a marked lack of income. Despair does not sell well. And so Parabear have turned to their fan base: "Unfortunately, dear friends, we can't live on audience sympathy alone. Please help us as you can... ideally with some cash. Voluntary contributions can be transferred to our account through your cell phone. We'll use all the funds to buy professional equipment. And that'll mean we can keep on entertaining you with even more fun and games!"
Satanists, alchemists, and simple lads from the provinces
The humor in that final phrase suggests an insistent awareness that the public has no real need for stark, sad truths... and indeed, not one person replied to the band's request online. As a result of which, the basslines will no doubt grow "blacker" still - and the voices even more strident. Band members currently admit that their time is split between "carefully planned relaxation on a couch"... and "thoughts of evil or bloody fanaticism."
Specifically they have in mind the widespread social enterprise of "Satanists, alchemists, and simple lads from the provinces - who might decide to torch a couple of houses."
No matter where one looks, trouble is waiting.
Before focusing upon their newest recordings, the artists say they needed first to feel a palpable increase in two emotional states: pain and malice. These, we're informed, are the best prisms through which to view life in contemporary Russia. Quoting from a well-known Latin saying, they then tell us there's no difference between a doctor and philosopher. Put differently, wisdom is health - and the members of Parabear see no real desire among their listeners to get well. Delusion becomes synonymous with sickness.
Evil does not sleep, dear listeners...
Yet still these musicians stand their ground, determined to cast the shroud of happy ignorance aside: "Evil does not sleep, dear listeners. Neither, therefore, do we..."
In the light of this enduring misery, the worldview of other projects, such as xOUSEPLANT from Yekaterinburg makes a great deal of sense. Named, arguably, after the most famous marker of settled, Soviet domesticity, this solo (and virtually anonymous) endeavor has brought to light a couple of radically lo-fi compositions, "Monsters Are Dead" and "Castaway." The former declaration is patently untrue - if we accept the views of Clathrus and Parabear - whilst the latter title is a frustratingly stubborn state. Not surprisingly, anything resembling purposeful activity soon comes to an end. Fatalism and/or stoicism take its place.
These two intriguingly formless tracks are defined for listeners as "synthi-tramp" (sinti-bomzh). In other words, for all the technical "wizardry" available to us, a feeling of detachment still persists - whether one owns a houseplant or not. Even the lyrical, stargazing figure on the DIY cover above is penned in a style very reminiscent of the underground or intelligentsia etchings of prior decades. It suggests a sidelined figure who's trying (hard) to muster a little romance - away from earthbound troubles. The only direction in which to look for hope, it seems, is upwards.
Hence the wavering, muffled compositions of xOUSEPLANT and the all-consuming pessimism of Parabear - to which, as Clathrus imply, the only fitting response is unbridled absurdism.
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