This CD Is an Apology Holzkopf

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So you are interested in this 2nd offering from Saskatoon’s Holzkopf? You are a daring individual, open to the idea of 60+ minutes of aural battering and defeat. Yet you come away from your stereo feeling as fresh as a daisy patch, uncontrollably trampled by a hundred rusty machines chugging along to the discarded rhythms of hip hop, break-beat, free jazz and acid house music.

That is one way to describe Jake Hardy’s latest efforts as beat/noise experimenter Holzkopf. This CD is an apology is just that. There is no intention to harm here. No intention to devastate. Just a through the lines warning that you may not understand, nor enjoy what lies within this package.

“I want to make music that sounds like it’s running as fast as it can away from the end of the world. Like it’s trying desperately to grab onto anything old, tried and true, in order to slow down as much as possible before hitting the wall at the end of the road. Savoring every last moment. Taking long breaths.” Add to that direction segments of melodic strings being pushed between walls of mid-range noise and clumsy rhythms. Bits of clunky guitar inspired by cold beer and sunny days pop up, and then always more noise and more interruptions. We are sorry…

This CD Is an Apology

Holzkopf

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Chris Sharp, The Wire, no 244, 1 mai 2004

Available in a limited edition of 500 and positively bristling with skewed refusenik attitude, this is the kind of release that makes life worth living. Whether you call it self-expression or just self-indulgent, there’s no denying the disquieting, invigorating impact of this kind of outsider art. It’s the work of Jake Hardy, who, closeted in his Saskatoon home studio, churns out rampant, anarchic, hard-panned, distorted, skittering electronic mayhem, cramming his compositions with the raging abandoned fragments of a million hard disc edits, and imbuing them with the kind of restless mutant life that you’d normally only encounter at the wrong end of a nuclear apocalypse. A track like the superbly named No Guns No Pride verges on the indescribable. [t’s a siurred, woozy, jangling mess, all uncoordinated strums and nervy tweaker breakbeats, which collapses into radioactive chaos before emerging like some primordial slug to crawl doggedly to its choking conclusion. And this is just one of 13 misshapen gems herein, ranging from the squirming, screaming power electronies of Toronto Riot to the beaten, luminous rainbow of 101 Cans. Fo connoisseurs of the outer limits at least, the churning, squealing, yet somehow serene Sonar Causes Whales To Kill Themselves is worth the price of entry alone.

… this is the kind of release that makes life worth living.

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