You’ll wish you were somewhere a little cooler after listening to Calor do Deserto, a ceaseless flurry of dry noise that’s more like Arizona than it is the Arctic. In just fifteen minutes, the starved depths of the desert rise up and come to life. Survival is the only option when you live out here. Your instincts are put on red alert. Melodic mirages seem to beckon you forward, but they vanish into the air. The noise isn’t forgiving, and it never lets up.
An angelic harmony vaguely enters, but its halo of light melts against the violent attack. The noise accelerates through a cool pipe of steel, distorting everything with its psychotic intent. Black and white dots race through the music, perhaps as a permanent reminder of the Big Bang and the origin of the Universe as we know it. As we dive deeper, the noise takes on another, menacing tone, as if it were the shadowy presence of something that can’t be destroyed, something that was there before the birth, crawling into existence via a black hole and perching on top of a dead star.
Closer to home, the rain of noise could be the incessant shriek of a subway as the steel grinds over the rusty rails, or the desperate dash made by a school of fish as a Great White shark hones in on its prey. It’s a vicious signal, and the final minute blossoms with intensity until it burns itself out; the sound of a weather balloon drifting at unimaginable speeds and then crashing into the dust somewhere in New Mexico, a thousand pieces of noise strewn across the singed earth. The olive-sprayed army trucks come to clean up the crash site, but they miss some of the metallic debris, which is, strangely, sharp enough to cut.
Noise is everywhere. It likes to push the silence away. Out here, silence should rule, but listen and you will hear a yawning cave, a shrill howl of a four-legged creature, a static-heavy horizon. (James Catchpole)