dusted

There’s not much concrete information available about the oddly-named Mamitori Ulithi Empress, so we’re operating in the dark to some extent. I’m going to hazard a guess that the band hails from Tokyo, and according to the Soundcloud they claim to be a five-piece with drums, bass, and three guitarists. While lead guitarist Aritomo has self-released a number of hand-assembled acid-folk records, information on the other members, including vocalist/guitarist Tadasuke Iwanaga, is slim. Given that photos and songs include trumpet, and it’s not mentioned in the lineup, who knows. 

Outsider rock by way of No New York, these six tracks over 32 minutes blend a freewheeling anarchy with just enough cohesion to call most of these legitimate songs — though a couple of short blasts certainly stretch the meaning. Several pieces start with over a minute of near-silent tuning up before the action begins, lending the feel of being in the audience at a Tokyo live house. 

The word that best describes this album is “ramshackle.” There’s the sense that everything’s about to fall apart at any moment, and in some ways it does, constantly. The drums clatter away, and the rhythms keep pushing the songs forward while the guitars run hither and thither, sometimes strumming along, at other times skittering and shredding sound with little direct connection to the rest of the proceedings. It’s a bit like one might imagine the Velvet Underground jamming with Mars, especially with Iwanaga’s languorous, worn-out vocals. 

“Gaia Saver” breaks the mold slightly at the beginning, with gently floating guitar haze, but then the drums enter and everything collapses slowly into a knotty commotion that brings to mind the Dead C. “Tengoku” is probably the most memorable song here, due to impassioned vocals mixed higher than usual and exhibiting a lot more energy. The drums chug along, and Iwanaga declaims like a ship captain in the midst of a whirling hurricane of guitar shards, layers of fuzzed-out haze and chaotic crackle. 

Veering from passages that resemble the drunkest marching band ever (if they carried beat-up guitars) to brief, formless blasts of guitar whackery, jagged strumming and horn bleats, Mamitori are sort of unpredictably predictable: you know the ingredients they’ll bring, but what shape the results will take is an unknown. Songs lurk under the heaps of guitar scum, and the moments when they peek out from within are fun to spot while letting the chaos flow past. Don’t expect this album to open up to you immediately, but if you don’t demand clarity, you should enjoy the experience. And it’s probably a safe bet that they’re a blast to see live. 

Mason Jones