Review Summary: For the lonely, by the lonely
Not for the first or last time, I wake up covered in vomit. My swollen brain pounds against a brittle skull, my muscles are riddled with dull ache, my kidneys send sharp coils of pain across my lower back, my mouth tastes like fluid burst from roadkill, and my throat is as dry as any woman that I've ever slurred my way towards. I yearn for the comfort of insensate sleep once again, but the respite of the unconscious world eludes me now that my brain is aware of my suffering.
Two 500mg anti-inflammatory pills and two 500mg paracetamol tablets washed down with 150ml of rum serves as an aperitif to my morning meal. I put a whole loaf of garlic bread in the microwave and rummage through the beer fridge for a 500ml beer above the 6% ABV mark. I'm in luck today; there's an oaked stout that reportedly carries notes of chocolate and vanilla, and the ABV sits at a cool 7.8%. I pour up, grab my soggy bread from the microwave, and head towards the lounge. With my hands full, I sweep empty bottles to the side with my feet, producing a clinking racket that will likely wake the family in the apartment below me. Finally, I nestle down amongst the spew-caked litter on the floor. A bile-filled sigh gurgles its way out of my mouth. This is a reaction I have every time I contemplate listening to Seiko Oomori's
Pan Kutte KILL. I reluctantly press play.
As
Tokyo Secrets kicks off, I hear acoustic guitar clearly recorded outside of a studio, an emotional intensity that makes Julien Baker seem like a pretty chill person, and words that seem of the utmost personal importance even though I can't understand them at all. My pain receptors have begun to dull at this stage, and in spite of my awareness of what the rest of this LP contains I allow myself a half-hearted smile at Seiko Oomori's immodest display of temperament.
In retrospect, the first time I listened to
Pan Kutte KILL I was a different person. I drank with a grave-seeking purpose, sure, but in those naive times it was simply because I enjoyed flirting with death. Much like the first track,
Tokyo Secrets, I was a little sloppy, but ultimately a good time. The symptoms on display weren't an obvious indicator of what was to come, and every c
unt and their Mum got around me at parties. As I sat with my 21-year-aged Old Tawny swirling in my hand, I felt an unexpected kinship to this Nipponese woman.
On track two,
Meat Katamari, it seems like Seiko's pawned off her best microphone in order to buy a few boxes of Asahi, and decided that if she records the rest of the album while she's f
ucking legless it might come across as more sincere. Free from both the shackles of sobriety and the necessity to perform to her equipment's potential, this little Seiko is ready to f
ucking cut loose. The middle portion of the album follows suit, with Oomori Seiko contrasting cutesy and catchy pop structures with violent strumming and ear-piercing howling that's loud enough to enrage the 6,158 people that theoretically share a square kilometer of Tokyo with her, and certainly isn't doing me any favours with the tenants living mere meters below my filth.
On this first listen,
Pan Kutte KILL violated my soul in such a way that the contents of my stomach became a putrid, unwanted layer of plaster unevenly strewn across various surfaces of my lounge. This album cut me deep, as I've been that half-talented musician yelling down the house for most of my life. I felt both elated and attacked, and I finished my Bombay Sapphire on the rocks with grim determination, steeling myself for the confrontation of self to come.
Just when I thought I'd come to terms with Seiko, myself, and the cheap, stinging taste of John Jameson's finest brown,
Cappuccino's lead break kicked in, triggering a full-blown panic attack. It seemed like somebody had covertly recorded me ripping lead breaks around a campfire after I'd deleted an entire 1,0 liter Faxe Extra Strong. As the off-time pentatonic notes shoddily found by ear hit my brain, the ethanol-shield that I had so vigorously constructed around my soul shattered. The last stretch of the album played to an unconscious audience of one, and, not for the first or last time, I woke up covered in vomit,
One month later, I listen to the rest of the album on a hazy Sunday morning, with nothing but painkillers, a touch of rum, and 500ml of oaked stout kicking around my system. As the album rolls on, I grab some water. Seiko Oomori's voice has an appeal that lies within how raw her performance is. I light some incense. Seiko Oomori's guitar playing is perfectly serviceable, especially considering the nature of the songs being performed. I do some yoga. The lo-fi production is what holds this album together, because if it was presented as a professional product the entire person-in-a-room appeal would be lost. I realign my chakras. The heavy cloud of guitars and vocals parts, and a piano bursts through the break in the clouds. Even this most gentle of instruments doesn't stop Seiko from doing her best Moaning Myrtle impression, but the change of pace is appreciated. I realise that
Pan Kutte KILL feels like a sermon to all bedroom musicians who think that their abilities limit them. I realise that this album ain't all that bad, and that
I ain't all that bad. I realise that I don't need to drink, but I do need to practice guitar more often. I spend the rest of my Sunday practicing all of the modes while trying to find my mixed voice. After a f
ucking hard day's yakka, I treat myself to a sake or six.
Not for the first or last time, I wake up covered in vomit.
