Sapat - A Posthuman Guide to the Advent Calendar Origins of the Peep Show LP (Sophomore Lounge, 2014)
Deep from the lusty palms of Stonyism: Sapat's 2014 follow-up LP to the 2007 Siltbreeze debut.
Large-group-ensemble-cast-of-Kentucky-characters come in from the hermetic-rain-field-of-electric-pabulum, rendering extraordinary-renditions into a maximalist-tapestry laced with concentrated forms of seared-synapse acoustic-retrieval alchemy; immediate stimulation that continually reveals myriad fire over repeated listens. This is an album chock full of ideas, and sound worlds that obliterate thought, a genre-melting bastard-child of Deep-Psych, Art-Punk, Stoner-Shred, Mass-Jass, Buddhist-Operatic, Narrative-Noise, Psychic-Coaction. Sapat: a 14 (so far) year running shape shifting collective sharing members of Valley of Ashes, Kark, Softcheque, Tropical Trash, Black Velvet Fuckere, Son of Earth, The Belgian Waffles!, Phantom Family Halo, and about a billion other Louisvillian enclaves.
Shriner orientalist band infiltrates Bavarian street parade singing song about (a lot more than) smoking crack in Iraq. Van Vilet's Dog Faced Hermans strap Godzilla to a treadmill. Vanna White lights up a Cuban on the Wheel of Torture, steps out your backdoor, and when you focus, there's the moon, in waning gibbous phase. Brian Jones subs Yoko-geisha for Jagger, meta-morphs corner into Yma Sumac weathering underground in Amon Duul II commune. Hank Williams buttons up a water sweater and a warm narcology, tom-catting an impossible Birthday Party-Morricone in a Swiss-Alpine sanatorium.
Donning an acid sombrero, and an extra buttocks t-shirt, straddling an astral saddle strapped to a nose powered lawnmower on a street named walk, Sapat, Elvis Clitshovel, Blurn Shithead, and Oral Crawldads all aim their Champion Polk Weed Antenna toward the Vertical Ammonia Driveway, and whisper, "The packer you chairman, the brainer you fuck."
"Sapat mint the kinda big band thunder of your favourite Northern European drone orchestras while marrying it to a ton of thrifty brass and weirdo song forms that cross male/female vocals, Magic Band rhythms and a cracked glam/thug vibe that is somewhere between Roxy Music and Alex Harvey. Fists of power chords are pounding into monomaniacal climaxes while lumbering brokedown minor-keyed ballads give way to moments of almost Chrome-styled zombie glam." - David Keenan (Volcanic Tongue)