Only the seediest, narcotics-fuelled bender in the darkest illegal rave will suffice.
Adam Anonymous 2009-08-27
Ever since The Beatles crashed Hamburg’s red-light district in their formative days, music in Germany’s second city has enjoyed more than a passing association with sleaze. Fitting, then, that the debut album from latest export Bastian Heerhorst – aka where-do-you-put-the-asterisks?-tastic producer F**** Offf (just there, then – Ed.) – dusts Teutonic filth over dancefloor-filling electro.
Having honed his skills in clubs across Hamburg’s sex shops and brothels-packed Die Sündige Meile (translation: The Sinful Mile), Heerhorst has learnt a thing or two about succinct sordidness.
Skipping complexities and aiming straight for the jugular, the 13 tracks here predominantly possess standalone single potential, albeit not in a charts-regarding manner: half top six minutes.
A trio of tunes already afforded 12-inch treatment lead the way with supreme confidence. The title track struts off almost trance tempos, winding up to a writhing climax, while I’m a Freak is rampantly hedonistic, breathless vocal hooks conceivably culled from a special-interest adult movie.
Rave is King is the euphoric party centrepiece, however, all hands-in-the-air keyboard stabs, an unstoppable shuffling bassline and judiciously-emitted burps of pure bottom end, topped by disconnected computerised mantra: “Alcohol, drugs, overdrive, noise, neon lights, party people, revolution”.
As shopping lists for nights out go, it’s right up with stoner rock kings Queens of the Stone Age’s “Nicotine, Valium, Vicoden, marijuana, ecstasy and alcohol,” from substance-gobbling 2000 single Feel Good Hit of the Summer.
Sunny days won’t, you suspect, do justice to Heerhorst’s feel-good hits, though; nothing short of the seediest narcotics-fuelled bender in the darkest illegal rave, surrounded by pimps, strippers and dealers, will suffice.
A final speaker-shattering volley is reserved for closer Bad Boy, oscillating wildly around Mr Oizo-level bass squelches and punishing percussion that lays dynamite beneath the rest of the record then wobbles, entirely spent, to a conclusion of crowd cheers.
In such a transient, achingly cool arena as electro, today’s record box hot properties are tomorrow’s bargain bin ballast. Yet despite Heerhorst’s failure to break new ground per se, his sheer club-levelling directness suggests F**** Offf might cause censors headaches for a few years to come.