Blackout Beach – Fuck Death (2011) [Dead Oceans] // Grade: B

The album title, alone, had me from jump street. That said, my background knowledge of Blackout Beach and the downer descant of musician Carey Mercer is less than impressive, extending not much beyond this month’s Fuck Death. What I do know is that this same dude used to, maybe still does, commandeer an indie rock band by the name of Frog Eyes, another project I missed the boat on but choked on the exhaust of, if you catch my drift. With that, I’ve allowed for us to skip the bullshitting about this former release or that week-long side project and get down to brass tacks. It’s my first date with Mercer and from the looks of things, it’s going to be one of those emotionally erratic, teary-eyed nights that make you want to fistfight your friends.

Invocations of Xiu Xiu’s Jamie Stewart, in-your-face wails of woe, seep through the cracks in multiple tracks as dude’s vocals and backing synthesizer fall out of sync with one another. The sullen free-verse is recited over estranged electronics, paying homage to a broken landscape, a living hell. Quietly seething with misanthropy, the album has a whole neofolk edge to it as tenebrous lyrics stain the guitar chords as well as an industrial influence, incorporating harsh machinations as a means to assault the listener.

Interesting enough,“Be Forwarned, The Night Has Come”, the fourth song on the record, was actually the composition that really grabbed my attention. The unsettling pitches of the synth is much like that of Walter, now Wendy, Carlos’ style of keyboarding, a certain brand that would feel right at home in a vintage pornography or a retro slasher film. In this case, though, sociopathic prose is imposed over it in such aggressive confliction that even the most, to use the terminology in “Hornet’s Fury Into The Bandit’s Mouth”, Philistine audiences cannot overlook.

Mercer takes up arms against the conventions of modern culture and the ignorance of Earth’s populace with his singing and songwriting. Frigidity reaches it’s peak with the rolling emptiness of “Drowning Pigs” and the six-string shock treatment “Broken Braying of the Donkey’s Cry”. “Sending Postcards to a Ghost” finishes and it’s over just as soon as it began. I’m glad Blackout Beach and I have made acquaintance, although I have this sneaking suspicion he hates my guts and wants to see the world burn.

- Casper