Burmese - Men
(Load)
Burmese - White
(Planaria)
As purveyors of a stunted, blunt, brutality, Burmese make few concessions to any sort of listenability. Their simple attack of two bassists and two drummers creates a slowly pummeling piston of bottom-end filth, straightforward steamrollers that only move forward in one grueling gear. It’s music of sweat and testosterone, a arising the urges that live deep beneath the conscious mind.
Men is the most recent document of Burmese’s San Fran sludge, an album that practically oozes aggression. Weasel Walter’s production gives the quartet an added sonic boost, and the results are stunning. Tracks like “Thumbsucker” positively quake with rage, as the drums beat out a punishing beat and the basses pulse and sizzle. These are uncomplicated compositions, songs that don’t need hooks, choruses, or technical dazzle to impress; Men is all about power, and Burmese have it in spades. As “Headmaster” builds with monotonous tension, the volcanic explosion that’s expected never arises, and the listener is pounded into submission. Burmese have no use for the quick kill, this is music that will suffocate slowly, without showy gestures or dramatics, simply with pulverizing drums, basses that decompose on the spot, and vocals that are the distorted voice of the deranged child within.
It makes sense that Burmese would record a tribute to White House. While they may not have inherited the UK power electronics legends’ instrumental arsenal, Burmese have the same affinity for sheer force in sound and lyrics so over the top they’re often as laughable as they are menacing. On White, the quartet blast through seven overdriven Whitehouse covers, full of dirty intentions. Burmese soil dutifully the sterile environment in which Whitehouse’s compositions reside, trading the stark simplicity of the originals for something a bit grittier. Where William Bennett’s vocals stand out starkly above the accompanying electronics, Burmese opt for a denser, more crowded mix, with the vocals rendered nearly indistinguishable under heavy distortion and other effects. It may seem almost sacrilege to bury Bennett’s infamous lyrics, but the obstruction suits Burmese well as a means to their impenetrable end. That Burmese double drums & bass lineup doesn’t seem suited for Whitehouse’s music becomes a null point, as they do a laudable job transposing the minimal electronics of the originals for their own purposes, though not without the use of some effects and electronics of their own. Often, unfortunately, Burmese’s renditions are drawn too close to Whitehouse’s originals, and the potential mass of the band’s attack is left unfulfilled. Still, it’s hard to deny the veracity and intensity that they inject into songs like “I’m Coming Up Your Ass,” and “Thank Your Lucky Stars,” as well as the power that lies behind much of White.
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