New York winters are best soundtracked by brutal reverb or ice-cold synths. Model/Actriz and Nation of Language, two beloved newcomers out of the Brooklyn indie scene, have mastered this particular chill on either side of the spectrum. Somewhere in the middle lies Amiture, a duo made up of Jack Whitescarver and Coco Goupil. This latest group out of New York’s new school of rock convey an earnest isolation by way of screeching guitars and quick-paced drum machines, a desire to dance in the dark alone.
While their debut The Beach was comparatively synth-heavy, their follow-up Mother Engine feels dark as an oil slick—and just as coarse. The grooves here feel slightly askew, oscillating between the danceable and utterly depressing. Whitescarver sings with ferocity throughout, his tremulous voice soaring with rock’n’roll smolder, though at times it borders on inaudible growling. Still, cuts like fuzzed-out single “Billy’s Dream” unfortunately reduce him to a low grumble lost in a sea of drums and reverb.
But these vocal modulations have the potential to touch the heart. Over looping guitar and cold, sparse percussion, “Dirty” tells a tale of queer yearning for an old flame now masquerading as straight. “You’re just like me/You wanna be a lady/You wanna make it dirty,” Whitescarver whispers to his former beau, evoking a pain all too familiar to any horny loverqueer spurned. On “Baby,” Whitescarver’s breathy snarl glides over upbeat drums. A particularly chilling cut comes in the form of “Cocaine”: Opening the doleful final third of the record, the namesake drug serves as a metaphor for Whitescarver’s toxic lover, a relationship he compares to being “just like [his] father” in a hushed rasp. This is a trip-hop scorcher for love addicts with daddy issues.
Halfway through, Mother Engine begins to sputter. “HWL” feels like a Garbage B-side better left off the album, carried only by Whitescarver’s floaty voice. The song positions him as the latest in a long line of alt-rock frontmen whose lyrics can hardly be made out past the vocal dramatics. Near the end, the instrumental “Porte Sosie” proves that the band need not rely on the ghostly beauty of the lead singer’s pipes. Layered electric guitar riffs clash in a chaotic miasma, reviving a record that at this point feels like post-punk slosh. Moments like these are proof of this album’s crackling, compelling soul.
Daniel D`Amico for SANREMO.FM
