Review Summary: Keep it unclean, fellas.
Ostraca broke screamo down to a science. The problem: skramz confined to science is formulaic, and a formula made three times over breeds stagnation. It’s the drawback of taking an inherently volatile style and attempting to place borders around it; emotional peaks, typically the place where the artist’s intent and the listener’s personal experiences converge, transform into motions that feel rehearsed, expected, and well-trodden rather than genuine discoveries. Where prior works a la
enemy specifically stumbled was in their profoundly clinical structuring; two barnstormers would race out of the gate, only for an atmospheric track to promptly wipe the slate clean, then rinse-repeat-and-so-on in an uncomfortably segmented push-pull dynamic. Both halves seemed to exist in separate, clearly-defined spaces; nothing about the violent, hardcore-infused forays informed upon reserved endeavors, which in turn didn’t build off of what preceded them, nor did they set up subsequent tunes. This led to the creation of many moments that, by themselves, demonstrated brilliance, but they had little connection to their surroundings.
While
Disaster seems more of the same from the Virginia crew--six meticulously paced tracks that all-too-finely fuse screamo spectacle and atmospheric cuts in a half-hour or less--there’s impressive growth to be found on the group’s fourth LP. Their scratchy, visceral brand of chaos continues to reign supreme, as well as the softer textures designed to offset it, with vast post-rock expanses of foreboding chords serving as a respite, but the true triumph lies within how the album manages to forge an actual relationship between restraint and its counterpart. Much of the record exhibits a further exploration into a metallic realm--something evident in the heavier guitars, occasional growls, and sprinklings of black metal that arrive in turbulent blast beats, shrieks and arching tremolos--and emphasizes brutality as its chief product, which gives the post-rock-ness of the release much more of a purpose in increasing and decreasing pressure. The ambience naturally feeds off of the fluctuating energy of the LP’s outbursts; when the cacophony of “Heaven is Still” reaches an apex, a gentle bass riff interjects to relax the tension, leaving room for haunting timbres to creep in from the background. The forlorn, uneasy atmosphere gradually adds levels of intensity, yet stops short of exploding, allowing the equally unsettling ambience of “Stage Whisper” to sneak into the scene. Likewise, the bombastic finale of the aforementioned song opens the floor for “Whilom” to begin construction, and the epic “Song for a Frieze” undergoes several dynamic shifts in its unpredictable journey.
In this context, there’s no longer a distance between the listener and the artist--something that the band’s newfound urgency assists in deconstructing. The constantly-shifting progression of “Heaven is Still,” ranging from its robust lead riff to the intermittent flurries of percussion, isn’t something manufactured, a by-product expected from screamo’s winding nature--it’s
genuinely felt at a level beyond technical appreciation. The climax of “Whilom” is not a rehearsed jaunt through familiar lands, but a revelation; its crushing beginning, how it blossoms into an unshakable onslaught of furious blast beats, and its transition into a punishing march to the finish are all incredible to behold, akin to the stellar evolutions June Paik would execute. Its usage of repetition in particular is effective, dragging the listener through the darkened melody and unabated intensity, patiently awaiting for the perfect opportunity to release the bubbling tension. How these moments coexist with the unassuming noise that concludes “Rebuke” or the eerie strumming that announces “Stage Whisper” makes them all the more impactful, and it lets the variety present in earlier works shine without seeming forced. Transitioning from one approach to the other can still feel abrupt, coming across as though the band hasn’t quite mastered the art of balancing as much as they’d like, but rarely are such instances especially egregious.
The key component to the success of
Disaster is that Ostraca allow themselves to be messy, to have sharp corners and uneven surfaces, and in doing so, they breathe entirely new life into their material. It’s authentic, whether they’re cutting loose Ampere-style on opener “Constellation” or conducting exhilarating pandemonium in the form of “Rebuke.” Rather than having compositions wrapped tightly in a bow, apparently streamlined to hit a predestined location, the band lets each song unfold, then ushers the momentum onward seamlessly. The shackles of yesteryear’s formula remain difficult to fully dismantle--previously named inspirations June Paik can certainly be felt, to say nothing of the likes of Envy and similar acts that tie in post-elements--yet
Disaster is undeniably less rigid in its presentation relative to Ostraca’s catalog. Cutting through the bedlam and the waves of static is a palpable sense of catharsis that grants their output the emotional resonance it had been missing, and it helps weave together distinctive portraits of exposed insecurities, cosmic metaphors, frustration, and a litany of other sensations that are demonstrated in a gloriously unclean fashion. This is screamo minus restrictions--which, really, is exactly how it always should be.
