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Lyonnais "Want For Wish For Nowhere" (Hoss Records)

In my successful book Compendium of One-Hit Wonders, which is unfortunately no yet for sale on Earth, there is a track which distinguishes itself with mordant splendor, and is further raised in ranks by having backed one of the most breathtaking and imperially weird scenes in cinematic history: Q Lazarus' "Goodbye Horses" compliments Cowboy Bob's "junk tuck" scene in Silence of the Lambs. It is sleepy in meter, but as its function is to explain a manic depressive bursting up and into a high joy/manic phase it's pretty in a rabid dog sort of way. I've searched over the years, or kept my ear to the ground in hope that Q Lazarus would follow up, to no avail. This morning, over coffee and a slice of cold pizza I had my bell rung with the same hammer of fulgent despair by an Ian Curtis-esque vocal on the LP's opener "Transitive Properties," again by the follow-up "The Fatalist," and then I finished my pizza, kicked over my stool, cavorted briefly and fell to the floor in a one-man orgy of slap-happy despair. While I jacked and jimmied, the brain was flooded by the rest of Want For Wish For Nowhere, which revealed itself to be a well-imagined, consistent soundtrack to lurking 'round the bell tower at midnight, pacing the moors with Heathcliff, driving the Indy 500 smashed through on pharmaceutical-grade opium or hunting the last lion on earth blindfolded and with a dull spear. Danger. Long odds. Romance, action verbs and secrecy described via a digi-electric hybrid of mostly wordless psych-drone soundwalls synchronically turbid and focused, lilting and fierce—worthy of sponsorship by an enterprising absinthe distiller. Fatalistic and reflexive, Lyonnais trots a path which has always been more popular in the UK than the US, but methinks with the recent success of bands like A Place to Bury Strangers and Deerhunter they have half a chance—even though they've tied an albatross around their collective neck by choosing a name with French roots. Big courage. Big nuggets. NOTE TO MY FELLOW MUSIC JOURNALISTS: Quit fucking referencing My Bloody Valentine to illustrate modern manifestations of shoegaze. Move on. Get original. They weren't all that good anyway.

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