Send "Sic Alps " Ringtones to your Cell 
| Dustedmagazine |
It’s the symbolism of the triangle itself, the whole neo-cult mythology that’s been attached to young people who want to give themselves an air of mystery despite anything you’d want to know about them lingering in cyberspace. All of the problems of modern music — an overreliance on technology and repurposed content, a cultivated image as thorough as it is desperate, frivolous espousal with the occult, dangerously over-medicated participants — hide behind this shape. And I’d hate to lump this Bay Area group in with any notions of “witch house” or “grave wave” when its entire repertoire is so deeply indebted to a less distinct jumble of lines and points, namely the crumpled, low-tech cryptonumerology of the early ‘90s. “O-X-E-X-E / N-I-E-L-E / S-I-C-I-D /Beep beep beep beep boop beep beep beep,” mumbles Donovan on “Eat Happy,” and the struggle of having to dig beyond the shopping mall or the cable TV broadcast to find music such as this, and to climatize oneself to what would be found if/when one got there, comes rushing back. Spasm smash, ox ‘n’ ass — these are words, not shapes, and you can instill your own meaning without looking so much like one who follows. Secret language notwithstanding, the contents of Napa Asylum make for Sic Alps’ clearest argument for existence since their Description of the Harbor EP kicked off an inflationary streak in latter-day record collecting history. Its 22 brief songs roll and crash against each other with a snoozy yet affable wake ‘n’ bake demeanor, and though the bursts of hurricane noise that set so high the bar for entry to their last album, US E.Z. are still prevalent, they’re not the whole story anymore. Enough focus has been paid to the songs in a traditional sense that a new dimension of folkiness has sprung out of their magnetic nest. Something like “Ranger,” with its quiet, reverberating bass thump, piano melody and scaled-back feedback, sounds like something you might have found on a Grifters record way back when. Those elements resurface later on “Meter Man,” affixed to a big riff that sounds off just because it can, then settles back down into a groove that splits off between U.K. folk-pop dandyism and a grittiness so vivid that you may want to check your shoes for sand after listening. Later on, “The First White Man to Touch California Soil” springs to life, a two-chord basher that represents one of several wake-up calls sprinkled strategically throughout Napa Asylum, and contributes greatly to the openness and accessibility of the effort. You may stumble upon an experiment or a minute-long fragment here and there, but the deck is stacked with memorable songcraft and an attitude that understands silliness without succumbing to sketch-comic dead ends....full text |
| Tinymixtapes |
| During the lo-fi/shitgaze craze that crested a couple of years ago (and keeps chugging along now, albeit to lesser blog buzz), bands were coming out of the woodwork to unleash an avalanche of cassettes, 7-inches, CD-Rs, and even some old-fashioned "proper" albums on established labels. The energy and excitement of these recordings were the major draws, with groups pounding them out as if they had invented home recording, even rock 'n' roll itself. But while there was certainly an abundance of talented musicians — The Hospitals, Eat Skull, Psychedelic Horseshit — it was unclear what some of these groups would do beyond their two- to three-minute up-tempo rock tunes, if they'd do anything at all. Sic Alps always stood out as one of the more unique of the bunch. Having a more carefully thought-out approach than most, the duo of singer/guitarist Mike Donovan and drummer Matthew Hartman rectified shitgaze's aesthetic circularity by building on their punk and garage rock core with a sort of late-60s psychedelic vibe, falling on the dreamier, sparser side of that sound, more Skip Spence than Moby Grape, more Syd Barrett than Pink Floyd. And as demonstrated by their Description of the Harbor EP, they weren't afraid to experiment with form either, playing around with seven minutes of feedback and noise before continuing with a group of pop-minded songs averaging about a minute and a half. They always made the gauzy quality of lo-fi recording seem more like a natural component of their music rather than a mere circumstantial necessity or nostalgic fetish. In the two and a half years since the band’s last album, the excellent U.S. EZ, shitgaze has become an amusing but quaint also-ran genre name, subsumed by the vague but venerable lo-fi. In that time, Sic Alps haven’t released anything besides a 7-inch, a split EP with The Magik Markers, and a few stray compilation tracks. This was curious from such a previously prolific band, especially in an environment where so many bands seem to operate under the music scene equivalent of “publish or perish.” Whatever the reasons for their absence, though, Sic Alps have returned from their sort-of hiatus with Napa Asylum, a fantastic album that adds new dimensions to their sound without altering what made them so engaging to begin with....full text |
Sic Alps lyrics
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