—American road rage.
Disquiet provides the kind of myofascial release equivalent to huffing gravel off the tarmac: After the initial nose bleed subsides—leaving nostrils numb and ears ringing—one starts savoring jet fumes with a bon vivant’s palate—gauging the role of speed in the Industrial Age. (A game smacking of time baited and space betrayed.)
Wrapped in rapturous discord, Disquiet’s melodies are fit for a sharps container, requiring training for safe handling. The trio improvises with a looseness oozing grease on an Uzi range, raining cartridges in bell house speakeasies. (It is best to sit when feeling queasy.) Its movements mirror a seething ouroboros: scales flickering in flames circling a writhing rat’s nest. Necking with transients in dark alleys, soaked through with found sounds, Noon’s nine songs frolic in break loose bedlam. (Choking on a tail of their own devising.)
The guitar plays skewed lead, crazed vortexes hurling furious debris. Evening tea: A 64-year-old accountant shot and killed 58 people, and wounded 489, at a country music festival in Paradise, Nevada. No motive is known. Meanwhile, bump stocks, the devices used in the massacre, remain available for $100. (The price the average American pays for monthly car insurance.)
—American blood pressure.
The bass treads spiral staircases chipped by scattered heels, climbing steps slick with spit and kerosene. Smokescreen: Ripe with rhetoric about “lifestyle choices,” in a clever gag of marketing, food producers publically backed Michelle Obama’s Let’s Move! health campaign. Currently, one-third of U.S. adults are clinically obese. (Two-thirds are overweight.)
The drums donkey kick sternums and ear clap onlookers, a fracas worthy of drunken monks. Lumps or bumps: Perched on acres of Ayn Rand newspapers, Joel Olsteen—a televangelist preaching “prosperity gospel” theology—grudgingly sheltered victims of Hurricane Harvey in his 16,000-seat mega church. (Only after great Twitter shaming.)
2017’s primary colors weren’t red, blue, and yellow; but red, blue, and purple—with emphasis on the red. Tickled with laughing gas, Disquiet lingers like a Sunday hangover that even black coffee can’t cure, a hangnail that keeps running long past the cuticle. What’s there to do when a spa date conflicts with a court date? What’s to be done with a rash called cash that dumps shopping carts at the curb? How does a nation cope with groping insecurities: Has Hollywood hailed a ride from Uber? Fortunately, Noon begs no solution—answering only the same noise which bore it: sardonic humor; Ritalin-boosted time signatures; and strategic abrasion. Fortunately, the fortune remains: Just grin and bear it. (Or is it: gin and bare it?)
—If it ain’t broke, don’t Brexit? (Todd B. Gruel)