Hyperlumps: Rude Rocks
Sometimes I feel drawn – or is it a longing? – to revisit Robbie Williams’ mind boggling nadir, Rudebox.
It’s an album of such jaw-dropping awfulness that listening to it is not akin to watching a train-wreck, but closer to mining the iron, smelting it into steel, building a train with your bare hands, laying a mile-long-stretch of track leading to a cliff-edge, firing it up and then finally jumping aboard and driving it straight off the edge.
The lyrics are beautiful in their putridity: a truly ingenious mix of hopeless UK slang and lazy rap clichés:
“Okay then what’s the fracas/Grab your cardy your lead hat and your bus pass/You don’t sweat much for a fat lass/Grab your rudebox cos your box is righteous”
The reason behind revisiting Rudebox is simply to remind me that there is a whole world of wonderful music out there. It’s easy to forget. Rudebox is the reset button.
So, in many ways, is an artist like Hyperlumps. Yes, Hyperlumps. It sounds like some sort of futuristic porn, but in fact, they are producers of entirely weirded-out, crackly ‘n’ disgruntled slo-mo creep-tunes.
What I particularly like about Hyperlumps‘ a small and rounded islet is the feeling that the whole thing was created, uploaded and broadcast by mistake: irregular static crackles accidentally, noises warp and reverb, and then the whole song stops abruptly.
But there’s something there: a humanity, the feeling of experimentation, the feeling of “Oh, why not?” And maybe, just maybe, this is something that Hyperlumps shares with Rudebox.
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