One willingly spills over with the catchphrase about how much the ocean depths are more unexplored than outer space, perfect for setting a tone without being too abstruse. What can we say, then, of the even closer rivers, which also hide jokes of nature, not to laugh at? Three meters of authentic Amazonian living fossil, a highly coveted fishing trophy, the arapaima falls into the category with all of its two quintals.
Imagining a more manageable substitute for an apartment was an irresistible temptation for this breakcore duo from Livorno, who found the tatami in the domestic dimension for their delirious martial arts: without moving from home but using the Israeli platform Fiverr, the “social media for creatives”, the two have systematically “purchased” accordion solo, bagpipe, banjo, opera singing and so on and so forth from as many professionals in the sector, from time to time instructed on what to do, in a baroque apotheosis of the dominant practice smart.
The modus operandi that has supported the genre since its foundation comes out in shreds: instead of sampling (read: stealing) material of various and often unknown origins, Domestic Arapaima not only “play” (albeit indirectly) every single instrument, but accredit all the innumerable accomplices in the operation, where as a rule one would try to dispel the troubles on rights by trusting in anonymity. Not a magic formula but a culinary recipe, the liner notes they meticulously detail these sources, with the zeal that would animate a Dj Shadow intent on boasting of his collecting virtues. A small (?) Copernican revolution for a genre that confirms its renewed credit with the new generations: who knows it won’t reap proselytes. If nothing else, the release on Sonic Belligerence, label which more than any other has smuggled the word breakcore into Italy, tastes like an official investiture.
Nerd rather than hacker, hidden behind Captain Beefheart-like fish masks, these virtual bookworms debut with an anomalous object already in the format (double 10”, to maximize the width of the grooves from a DJ perspective) and in the package (layout with Paint license plate and non-metal graphics, extraction barracks for the two soldiers). Strengthened by a devolved imagery in low fidelity, they prove to be skilled sound craftsmen, as demonstrated by a sparkling, stylus-proof production.
Each track targets a genre and an imaginary, but is in turn an incubator of new stylistic deformities. As per the breakcore tradition, it is theAmen Break the Rosetta Stone of this insane Pangea, an electro-pick that can become a pen, comb or hammer when needed.
The omnivorous-schizoid shadow of the patriarch Igorrr dominates in the Magyar waltz of the initial “Domestic Arapaima” (which, more distantly, also evokes a certain French-speaking industrialist, the unforgotten Young Gods in primis). From then on, no expense is spared: cubist swing to the sound of versacci (“Jovasthir Chuffo”), sandpapered big beat by throat singing (“Zagasny Duu”), Latin machismo (“La Cuadra De Coltie”), cavernous bass (“Samaki Wa Mechi”), reckless gabber (“Ohi Mmena”), supersonic country (“Banjocore”). And smooth, ça va sans direnow inevitable in any production of central-northern Italy, roasted here on a crackling crossover embers wing Claypool (“In the Belly of the Balera”). What remains, at the end of the fair, is little more than a “Torsolo”.
What is exasperated (homage or parody?) is above all the virtuosic aspect of the many pieces of music brought into question, as if to make fun of it thanks to the superhuman potential of programmable beats. Half an hour of music, the maximum that a more or less healthy mind can support. A disc to do away with discs.