black midi - Cavalcade Review

OPPRESSING EXPECTATION, DEFYING NORMS

black midi bursting at the seams. A sophomore slump cast aside. Heights so unreachable, one questions what's deemed impossible. Cavalcade confounds, its tether to artistic sensibility so grand and consummate. Cavalcade shocks, with industrious versatility incurring paralyzing whiplash. But above all else, Cavalcade rocks, its wicked assertion over complex rhythms and structures fascinating from a critic's perspective, primal from a consumers. It's a classic when taken at face value, thwarting expectation in a myriad of ways, reigniting the flame of a lost genre (Avant-Prog), pacing the twists and turns brilliantly, penning with minds both inquisitive and delirious, and showcasing talent with blunt, uniform precision. Needless to say, after the freakish gut punch of Schlagenheim - and U.K.'s highly-competitive Art Punk scene - expectations were high for black midi's follow-up. Yet with all that behind, all that known, nothing can prepare one for Cavalcade. 'John L' makes sure of that.

With its six alarmist revs petrifying any unsuspecting listeners, 'John L's' opening moments ensure attention is grabbed. Held through a frenzy of fire. From there, tales of revenge on cult leaders, conniving cartoon convicts, tortured artists, the dissolution of culture, and reality's grand jest consume songwriters Geordie Greep and Cameron Picton. Both, significantly improved over their performances on Schlagenheim; the former, reeling back forced eccentricity, establishing his natural quirkiness, the latter, confident and dogged in quiet recluse. While purposefully disjointed, Cavalcade's lyrical content never ceases to arouse curiosity. This is a far cry from 'bmbmbm's' infamous "she moves with a purpose." Here, it's black midi's purpose that's so well-defined. Greep's unraveling tales - best captured on the Genesis-like closer 'Ascending Forth' - read like abstract poems weighing injustices amidst a staunch class divide, and the lengths in which the oppressors will go to be set free. A specific assessment, to be sure, but one that applies to half the songs here; 'John L,' 'Dethroned,' 'Hogwash & Balderdash,' and 'Ascending Forth.'

On Picton's end, the tone is more intimate and existential. If Greep's mind wanders to conflict in the quest for comfort, Picton's questions the urgency of it all. His two, back-to-back stunners embellish this fatalistic tone. 'Slow' - a masterclass of Rock In Opposition - impatiently analyzes the crumbling of one's own skeletal composition, eager for an afterlife, or perhaps just desperate to know the answer. The resigned and defeated "I guess I'll wait" bridge - apart from being Cavalcade's greatest moment, with its ominous, apocalyptic tone set adrift a sea of madness - surmises Picton's viewpoint on life's daily squabbles. The meandering 'Diamond Stuff' purports modernization's inconsequentiality. Some big words that essentially refute materialism as a paragon of success.

While 'Diamond Stuff's' lyrics fall heavily into the abstract, its production value soars to sights black midi has never reached. The culminating build veers into pronounced, progressive, euphoric Neo-Psychedelia, a tone that's only remotely matched on the borderline MPB of 'Marlene Dietrich.' Even then, the swooning scale - grand and death-defying - is a marvel to behold. Dream Pop made by exploratory rockers, with mature consideration and care that places it atop Cavalcade's list of astonishing achievements. Despite their complexities, 'Chondromalacia Patella,' 'Dethroned,' and the like have the backdrop of The Windmill; black midi's live playground for anarchist experimentation. 'Diamond Stuff' exists; anomalous and incomparable by contrast. And it is moments like these that pace Cavalcade with perfection, undulating through a mutinous wreckage via experience and grace; two descriptors one would never apply to black midi following Schlagenheim. An evolution for the record books, and apologies for never mentioning Morgan Simpson. His percussion, in this era, is unmatched. A legend in the making. One whose greatness arises in the thing I struggle to describe the most; technical proficiency. For musical savants out there, let it be known: Cavalcade is a wet dream.