Generally, the wilderness, as represented by the forest, is deemed a mysterious and often intimidating place, teeming with potential. Well, when there is no more forest, then what? Humans are extraordinarily good at terraforming the planet and making it habitable for themselves by building things like highways, malls, and condos with central air, but this comes at a cost- as more spaces are tamed, fewer prospects remain, and the more clear the human races limitations and failings become. One of the regrettable consequences of human civilization as such is that it tends to generate a lot of trash (and no, I'm not just speaking in terms of culture)- filling the groves that farrowed so much whimsy in the past with heaps of discarded things. Whatever creatures still cling to a meager existence in our shadow, they are forced to make do with our scraps- whether they be flora, fauna, or... something altogether different. London's Snapped Ankles might just be the best example I can offer for this third unusual category. The alternative punk group have a taste for the deranged and theatrical, in both their music and sense of fashion; donning very naturalistic-looking ghillie suits that incorporate moss and twigs with obvious instrumental materials, while performing with instruments that blur the line between driftwood and electronic waste. Adorn with these strange accessories, Snapped Ankles come to resemble woodland spirits who have been forced by circumstance to acclimate to encroaching urbanization. It's a look that certainly compliments their sound, especially on their latest fourth LP, Forest of Your Problems. On this album, the group adapts a groovy vantage point on post-punk to ignite a stomp-worthy ruckus of unprecedented and ultramodern primitivism, somewhere between a reincarnated Residents and a refurbished Sparks. Commanding basslines bully and steer repetitious ritual rhythmic dynamics in an absurdist reformation of modern affirmations and derelict, latterly-digitized oaths. The cries of displaced dryads are pulled through the circuitry of overheated synthesizers like ore through a furnace so that they might serve to tighten the links of locked grooves, and salt each recurrent phrase with notes of heartache and sticky homesickness. Frantic assemblages of plastic melting, mashing beats cut and combine adrenaline with a compulsive sense of delirium that drags you to the hairy plain of its bosom like a woodsman's axe etching its wielder's fatalistic intent into the trunk of the tree. The only problem you'll find yourself having in this burly thicket of grooves and gnarly electronics will be convincing yourself to turn it off long enough that you can stop dancing and rejoin society.
