Spectreview: draag me – I Am Gambling With My Life

-CHARTREUSE-

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Take one cursory listen to I Am Gambling With My Life and decide for yourself if “indie” is the right label for it. If we’re talking about the indie that streaming sites still construct seemingly interminable playlists around, it’s about as indie as a protein smoothie could be considered peanut butter. Which, to be frank, is a positive thing; it’s time to pour some soil on that misguided, ultra-reductive label. Instead the debut release from Zack Schwartz, guitarist and vocalist for acclaimed experimental rock band Spirit of the Beehive, is definable mostly for its indefinability. It feels primarily like lo-fi hip hop, at least for a few minutes until it switches gears from nauseous ambience (“Passing Thru”) to depressive Soundcloud rap (“There Is a Party Where I’m Going”; “Closer”) to corporate vaporwave (“I Am Gambling With My Life”)  to half-speed Death Grips (“Burned My Tapes”) to lush techno (“Money”) to low-end screamo (“You’re Giving It Away”) to the puce, foggy guitar melodies his band are known for (“Why Do You Feel Nothing?”; “Lie”). Suffice it to say it’s a record that flirts with a ton of styles at once, a feat that’s supported by a collection of similarly-eclectic artists (Philly act Body Meat in particular feels like a considerable influence here). Every time the wheel lands on one particular sound, more come creeping into the frame like wild ivy, erasing any obvious demarcations.

Anybody who’s spent good time with a Spirit of the Beehive record (and you absolutely should, with Hypnic Jerks at least) will understand Schwartz’s penchant for balancing disorientating harshness with structured calm. While I Am Gambling With My Life is as chaotic as anything he’s ever released, that gift is what keeps this centrifuge of ideas from spinning out of control. What shouldn’t be discounted is how meticulously-built even the tossed-off tracks feel; individually, every moment works in microcosm on its own terms. The big question is if he’s attempting to do too much on the whole, and the answer depends on how you choose to interact with the record’s maniacal stream of new information. At nineteen tracks and countless sonic detours, close listening at first feels like a Herculean task, and there are rare times when it threatens to collapse under the weight of its own density. Then again, close listening when it pertains to lo-fi can be a fool’s errand, so perhaps it’s best to simply let these disparate, oft-gorgeous tracks wash over your ears, half-listening but certainly not just half-enjoying.

Recommended for altered perception.