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Yawn.
And sigh. Then fart. Then yawn again.
What
I love about Didrapest is the name. It always reminds me of Tobias Fuenke of
Arrested Development, who creates a new professional entity that’s half Analyst
and half Therapist – Analrapist.
It’s
a visual gag, you need to see the word written down. One wonders if Didrapest
is an intentional anagram of Ded Rapist; if nothing else, he certainly creates
music that leaves one longing for the pleasure and connectedness of
necrophilia.
Childish
snickerings aside, Point Therapy is only marginally worse than Didrapest’s 2007
flop Psychedelic Injection. The name of the game is formulaic (with every track
hovering between the 144.9 and 150.1 BPM mark), and they execute this dross
formula tosh with predictable 32-beat aplomb.
Their
midsections are uniformly cluttered. Seven or eight sounds join in the party
where three would suffice, and the result is forced. Nothing breathes, nothing
is organic, nothing sounds natural.
The
sheer ‘formulaicness’ is staggering: skip every track to five minutes in, and
you’re in a breakdown. Skip every track to six minutes, and you’ve got a hectic
final run with loads of high-end tweaks, that lasts all of 45 seconds before
the ploddy mix-out bit.
Remember
when an album being formulaic was a mortal sin? We panned Eskimo for using the
same structure across a whole album, then we almost applauded Electric Universe
for turning formulaicism into an art form of his own, such was his admirable
adherence to retreading the familiar.
What
are we supposed to make of it now? Is formulaic cool again? Is formulaic a
thing of the past? Does it even matter now that people don’t really want CDs
and will buy online, picking their personal favourite from the formulaic pile?
If
that’s the case, then Didrapest do not write music. By offering up slightly
differing versions of the same thing and letting us choose which one we want,
they’re retailers. Or possible wholesalers. But they’re definitely not
musicians.
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