Real quick, right off the bat: This album is messed up, man. You are guaranteed to have never heard anything like it. On that fact alone, it’s worth your time.
British experimental funk-pop producer Clarence Clarity released his debut album “No Now” two years ago in March 2015. This debut release was preceded by two extended plays: “Who Am Eye” in 2014 and “Save Thyself” in 2013, both of which showcased Clarity’s skewed, genre-bending production aesthetic.
Clarence is a relatively new addition to the record label Bella Union, the same house that promotes artists like folk aesthetes Fleet Foxes, post-rock titans Explosions in the Sky and the electro-washed pop act Beach House.
“No Now” is atrocious and addicting while making no sense at all. This album stands out, without a doubt, from any other record released in the past 20 years. It's a voluptuous cacophony of broken glass and space vomit, distorted into an hour-long fiesta of demonic funk that vehemently dares you to finish listening to it.
Personally, the record holds a special place in my CD collection. In my opinion “No Now” is both the catchiest and twisted albums of 2015. The combination of both worlds, I imagine, is difficult to pull off considering most pop artists never venture too far from the farm.
A few songs on it remind me of Britney Spears’ singles such as “Toxic,” wherein her sampled strings and lyrics exude a discordant yet catchy sonic experience. I always found Spears’ 2004 single a challenge to the listeners, to see how far they were willing to push the envelope of dissonant themes within popular music.
Much in the same way with “No Now,” everything is all over the place. Thematically there are a lot of recurring aesthetics, one being the thalassophobic, underwater feeling that permeates almost the entire album, as if Clarity was recording in the middle of an ocean, over a deep abyss that kept dragging him down despite gasps for air, belting out vocal melodies in the process. It’s a cryptic album; sprinkles of death, apocalypse, fear, love and guilt leak out of each one of its 20 concoctions.
And each song can be traced back to a specific hook-laced synth lick or some catchy, repetitive lyric that adds to the cyclic nature to the album. The album’s last song “Now I Am” flows right into track one, “Become Death,” a continuation right back into itself.
Thereafter the second song, “Will to Believe,” begins and features Clarity pleading with us listeners to see through his eyes, to feel through his skin:
“I can’t always feel it
The head can’t always dream it
So stop dreaming, be it
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And I will”
Tracks present themselves as if some demonic figure offstage is forcing Clarity to forge these paranoia-driven experiences at gunpoint. It’s a sick motif that coalesces in the form of lyrical repetition, a feature that I've come to enjoy in a guilty way. Each line's repeat adds more and more power to whatever section of the song we’re in, similar to the traumatic reflex of how a person trying to find peace within their own mind repeats to themselves: “It’s going to be alright.”
The pre-chorus to track three, “Alive in the Septic,” consists of a simple pair of statements, repeated over and over again by a haunting, high-pitched voice that explains to the listener what “it” is.
“I am hope, I am fear”
“Hit Factory of Sadness” is an evil, conveyor belt of a song (some would debate it’s even a song) that reams the listener continually with random, chaotic noise reminiscent of Aphex Twin and early Flashbulb.
Tracks like “Porn Mountain,” “The Cute” and “One Hand Washes the Other” thoroughly exemplify the duality of Clarity’s work. Perverted hip-hop, amplified by muddy wails and poppy synths. Or are they samples? Clarity draws the line in quicksand and finding it requires effort. Every noise blends naturally into each other; he knows exactly what he’s going for.
“We’re flies at the reptile party”
In line with all the weirdness, “Tathagatagarbha” is just 23 seconds of silence, perhaps to act as an intermission and split the 20 tracks into two sections of 10.
And that’s just it with this album, the absurdity of it all. Songs end abruptly. Silence is used as an instrument. Songs fall quiet, and start back up again like nothing happened. Tracks explode into annoying, rhythmless pandemonium — frequently. And the introductions to certain songs are teased much before the actual track appears on the album.
“Before I give up, I’ll put..”
“Cancer in the Water” is the penultimate track, its riff hinted at the end of three previous tracks, but often drowned out by another spontaneous idea. When it finally decides to show up, the album welcomes you with the slickest groove it has.
The track utilizes a friendly clap-your-hands-we're-all-gonna-die kind of vibe that, impressively, sounds both happy and sad at the same time — not unlike “On Melancholy Hill” by Gorillaz. “Cancer,” along with “Those Who Can’t, Cheat,” are perhaps the most radio-friendly songs on “No Now,” despite wielding that devious, warped sense of rhythm and melody.
The argument that “every song sounds the same” is very much applicable to this album. When every track is screwed up in some way or another then, to a certain extent, they’re just reflecting each other’s tone.
Clarity’s vocals have the same mellow R&B taste each time he croons and it can get annoying, not to mention hearing about cryptic themes in the same tone over and over again. Parts of the album are just complete nonsense that’d make even the most devoted music enthusiast cringe. It goes without saying this album is difficult to digest.
However, it’s worth noting that “No Now” offers a level of re-playability similar to massive prog operas such as “The Wall.” You can listen to this album on repeat for days and still find new, interesting, diseased gems hidden in it. This record needs time to be appreciated, and that's the point.
You’ve got to respect Clarence Clarity's execution. It’s pop music that demands revisiting to comprehend it. That’s unheard of.
“No Now” has tendrils. It wants to grip you with them, drag you into its kaleidoscopic hell-scape and share with you what it knows. It sounds like every color at the same time, zealously screaming into a conflagrated microphone. If you’re willing to stand your ground on the receiving end of this calamity, I implore that it’s worth your time of immersion.
Audrin Baghaie is the music editor at the Daily Lobo. He can be reached at dailylobomusic@gmail.com or on Twitter @AudrinTheOdd.
