Somewhere between the silver sheen of Ratatat and the rusted shrapnel of late-era Oval lies Dan Friel, where gutcutting shards have been scrap-recycled into rough-hewn hardlines and swooping curves.
Everything clatters, everything bristles, everything screams, but the construction's rigorous and perfect and gesturing at something simple and human. It's a beautiful sweep of noise that's only a little bit painful to listen to 3.5/5
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