by Devin Birse (@devvvvi.b)
“I know my shit is pure” are the first words echoed across Amiture’s second LP, Mother Engine. They pierce through the mix like a spectral echo past the driving beats and sleazy blues licks. It’s a statement of intent, the band's “shit is pure,” it’s a unique vision of trip-hop a world away from the dancey post-punk of their debut The Beach. Mother Engine does retain that album's grooves and Jack Whitescarver’s gorgeous vocals but nearly everything else about Amiture’s sound has been rebuilt from the ground up. This is trip-hop by way of David Lynch and the Delta Blues. While the Bristol pioneers behind the sound took inspiration from noirs defined by smokey interiors and Venetian blinds, Amiture’s sound draws on something more entrenched within the American psyche, the road. This is an album of late-night drives, of bodies buried in offroad cornfields, of not roaring but rather moaning engines, it sounds like the sensation of passing another car and seeing something off behind their tinted windows.
This sonic leap can be attributed to the fact that Amiture is no longer a solo project, with Coco Goupil joining Whitescarver to turn Amiture into a powerful duo. Their guitar work is what gives the project this newfound blues flair with their riffs on tracks like “Glory” and “Rattle” combining with the ghostly synths and industrial beats to create songs that sound like the score to a cyberpunk spaghetti western. Yet this jump in quality isn’t due to their contributions alone but also Whitescarver’s leaps as a songwriter and vocalist. His voice is less ethereal than on The Beach, instead it takes on a ghostly quality in how it haunts the tracks. At points, it resembles the pained beauty of Jamie Stewart, or the ghostly romanticism of David Sylvian yet never feels indebted to what came before. Rather it’s rooted deep within the sonic landscapes he and Goupil create, like a phantasm from the past haunting an automobile of the future.
These landscapes appear as the focal point of the album, each track feeling like a scene plucked from a neo-noir that exists only in dreams. The songs here carry both a featherweight touch and a coarse grit that allows the listener to get lost in them before being brought down to earth. Mother Engine is at its best when the dream shatters, like a sudden guitar riff breaking through Whietscarver’s voice on “HWL” or the black post-industrial claustrophobia of “Collector,” these moments feel like a sudden switch to a nightmare. The best of these nightmares is the album's third track, “Billy’s Dream,” a stomping Suicide esque piece of synth punk where Whitescarver's voice takes a near southern gothic quality as he echoes out “I like ‘em handsome, I like ‘em mean.” The rolling EBM beats render the track irresistible, whilst the clashing guitars and Whitescarvers echoing vocals collide with the rhythms to create a song that’s as spine-tingling as it is danceable.
That doesn’t mean these moments are always interrupted. Instead, Mother Engine often allows them to breathe. On tracks like “Law + Order” the synthesis of blues rock riffs and trip-hop drums is allowed to glide across the ears like a breeze passing by in a convertible. Elsewhere they take on a gloomier quality, the subtle dance beats of “Dirty” sound like a club entrance montage repeated into eternity and on “Cocaine,” a slower pace allows the listener to languish in Whitescarver’s voice. It’s a voice that’s not merely sonically deep but also lyrically heartbreaking. His lyrics illuminate shame and the entrapment of desire with equal amounts of passion and misery. These lyrics combine with the soundscapes to create an image of deeply American misery. On the gorgeous penultimate track “American Flags” visions of guns and family trauma melt into the refrain “Good things coming.” The song appears as a mocking tribute to contemporary American life. Failures both past and present are ignored for the promise of an unreachable dream.
Despite all the misery, Mother Engine is a deeply enjoyable album. The sort to be put on when afternoons take a turn towards the melancholic. It should be heard on late night car drives through a city where the chimes and gears of the industry have stopped suddenly. It’s the soundtrack to an ever-extending road trip past impenetrable skyscrapers and through highways scarred by the lost and lonely.