Review Summary: Tales from the electronic abyss.
Things like Death Grips, JPEGMAFIA--they weren’t designed for mass appeal. They were dedicated to outcasts, to those traversing industrial wastelands or caught in the wake of a catastrophic personal meltdown, with rage and torment splattered across beats that were ripped from a digitized apocalypse. But now they’re
here, banging on the gates of a broader audience that’s slowly become infected with an anxious energy for a litany of reasons I don’t even sorta have the time to explain. The bottom line is that what was once glitched to hell and back is now uncomfortably relatable, and where cohesion was once a mere joke, the punchline’s become a close-to-home commentary. Over-analysis? Probably. But perhaps it explains why listeners have converged upon
Iris and its relatively obscure mastermind, and why its confrontational approach possesses a potent emotional appeal.
Devyn Smith is certainly no stranger to the abstract--the architect behind Me oh myiorama has had a prolific career already as Coin locker kid and C’est la Key, among other projects--and they’ve earned plenty of underground praise for relentlessly tinkering with glitching electronics, wildly distorted soundscapes, and dark concepts that delve into traumatic realms.
Iris acts as yet another extension of their artistic vision; it liberally mixes blaring synth lines with biting noise elements, erratic sampling, bursts of hyperpop, unexpected instances of dance-worthy grooves, and a whole lot of emo-inspired vocals. Every phrase uttered throughout the mini-album (what even
is an EP anymore?) sounds as if its author is teetering on the edge, barely a half-step away from melting down entirely--something embodied by Smith’s wavering singing voice and the verses that, at times, are furiously shouted out into the electronic abyss.
Iris thrives on this precipice, never fully dissolving into chaos but always keeping the audience aware of how near the drop-off is. Consider how the curtain is slowly pulled back on “Dissociation,” where what sounds like a Jakey tune--emo rap with a dollop of hyperpop and warped electronics--violently swerves into a breakdown that wildly flails samples and an electric guitar together, or the way “Southbound” rams its glitch-infused, off-kilter beat into a cheesy 80’s-esque synth line that clashes against the atmosphere. At the center of the record is the winding odyssey of “Fanta seaworld”: an unpredictable 6-minute trek through a groovy, distorted bass beat that slowly develops to include glittering melodies and stock sound effect abuse. From there, it’s a hectic trek through noisy electronics, droning synths, and random ambiance that haphazardly swings through the mix. It’s difficult to tie Smith’s style down throughout this commotion, which lends to a commendable variety across the record’s short duration, including the stripped-back, heartfelt title track that dispels rap in favor of Smith’s wavering singing voice.
As incredible as it can be, Smith’s work here does come with caveats. Their voice--frequently as messy and volatile as the record it inhabits--is a point of contention, what with its emo whine, frequent screaming, random yelps, and thin tone. It functions within the boundaries of
Iris, but those same boundaries can be grating, such as occasional lyrical gems--there’s enough about coming to fill a porno (hello, “Gacha!”); whether it works or not is up to the individual--the undercooked “New2me,” or any of the production choices that are wielded with the precision of a Stormtrooper. That’s the price of admission for LPs that aim to attack listeners head-on with an uncomfortable vulnerability; something jagged, dramatic, and violent is expected, and the creative decisions emerging from that are guaranteed hit-or-miss gambles. Yet the heart of
Iris makes it compelling beyond its uneven appearances; there’s a uniquely tragic aura to its spiraling electronic soundscapes, allowing the brief release to be surprisingly rewarding. It’s as if someone’s life is bleeding out onto a keyboard and this is a final, wonderfully inelegant message left behind. Over-analysis? I’m not so sure.
