Crabe - Anti-Vague (Cuchabata)

I took my time getting around to listening this newest offering from Crabe… conditions had to be perfect. I read the barometric pressure, consulted the stars, made the appropriate incantations and herbal offerings and settled in with my Koss Portapros to scope Anti-Vague , the duo’s third full length album.
The main departure from previous offerings is a more cohesive songwriting that uses their tendency to spazz as a strength rather than the main act. Opener “Tchuss” establishes an unforgettable riff that draws you in right away. Ok, I’m here, let’s do this shit. Then comes the brain fuck punk of “Épanouissement personnel & intime” which explodes in all directions like a roman candle being kicked across the room. Sudden concrete meanderings splice into punk riffs and bleating guitars, Mertin Höek sneers his lyrics like he’s throwing knives. Drummer David Dugas Dion holds up his corner thunderously, perfectly counterpointing the wild guitar lines. They settle into familiarly Melvins laced territory by the third “Terra Personne” and by the time “Le Sydney pastel comme un schéma” drops I can barely take anymore riffs, I’m dizzy, eyeing the floor, wanting to curl up in fetal position and regress into early childhood, and the intermission-like title track drops. A fucked up spazzy sax and cheap keyboard interlude, it breaks the tension nicely. Maybe I can make it through this record undamaged.
UPDATE: I couldn’t. I took a three week break and I’m back now, armed with some gin and fine Moroccan incense to help my brain shoehorn back into this glorious explosion. Where was I? Oh yes, the title track, “Anti-Vague”, which does what it says, cuts apart the waves with a pastiche of sax-squall, cheap keyboards and Mertin’s stream of consciousness beat poetry, kicking that kilter off the cliff. “Couteaux d’internet” slams in with metallic riffs trading places with soaring arpeggiations landing everywhere like giant wonky UFOs in a forest fire, complete with a twist ending. “Caca-cocaïne”, a kiss off like baseball bats to the groin will give the brain a nosebleed, bending every breakdown in an almost parody of 70’s swag-rock, the celestial pads in the middle serving little purpose and yet all-important. “La Brique En Hiver” starts off maudlin with a sweet samba-laced ode, smashed (again!) into smithereens by the knives of riffs that trade winds with the featured guest pedal on this album, the Small Clone chorus. “Normal” swishes by breathlessly, offerings gifts to the resilient listener. Full throttle, and it’s so impressive watching a band hold the gear till the engine overheats, dropping the handbrake just at the right turn, though on this track they are all left turns. INTO HELL. No, not hell, really, but into the swan song… the thoroughly fucked “Super loin” (“Really far” for you Anglos, not loin like “pig loin”. Anyways.) This final track is the coda that typifies the deliberately awkward endings of the Crabe live show.
The triumph of most bands that really push the envelope is the obviousness with which they are oblivious to what is perceived as any “right” way to do things. Think of bands like Alice Donut , Butthole Surfers , Melvins…. these are acts that create and then kill their own personal idioms, for their own twisted amusement. Many people may hold their ears and run from that, as they might from Crabe, but those that remain are like the first 5 people that thought Primus was the shit and bought a tape. The prescient among us might twig to what obvious genius and true punk sorcery is being offered in the oeuvre of this phenomenal band.