Ruban Nielson's Mint Chicks stuff was pure gold, nothing else like it - so eratic, so ugly, so wonderfully, perfectly New Zealand garage rock.
His UMO stuff hasn't got that same spark, too many layers, too much studio fuckery. That's all still true on their latest, but this is the first time that sound's remotely /worked/, where it attacks at angles that compliment all those excessive smears and doubleups, coming in insidious, packed with slithery funk and Of Montreal self-doubting sleaze.
It's not much fun, not altogether exciting, but it's at least compelling, drawing you in closer to peer at some mottled thing to puzzle out its uncanny nature 3/5
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