The cover of Klive’s debut album is a jumble of ropes: ivory and pine, scarlet and sand. These ropes serve as a metaphor for the music made by tangled wires: dying star crackles, dog pitch whistles, static knots. Sweaty Psalms is likewise a study of contrasts. Imagine a high school gymnasium in which the groups are forced to mingle, Goths with geeks, jocks with junkies. On this album, harsh elements nestle next to the smooth, the ugly next to the beautiful, the organic next to the electronic. When the combinations work, the results are stunning, and when they don’t, their conception remains admirable.
Opening track “ljósvaki” begins with repeated bleeps that sound like a tractor in reverse, but organ tones enter midway and offer structure. The title track switches the plot, presenting the melody before the squelch. This time, the accessible lines disappear, replaced by seemingly random noises – chimes, typewriter stabs, clashing swords. Klive, who defines himself as a collector, is showing us the toys in his box, one by one, saving the best stuff for later.
The midsection of the album has a beat, but to dance to it, you’d probably need at least one drink. On the third track, we hear drums, backwards masking, the sound of glass breaking and then suddenly a brass quartet, which disappears after 36 seconds like a magician’s assistant, replaced by the sound of breaking waves. But Klive will not leave us so unsatisfied; the brass returns on track four, and again on “mardi gras,” the album’s sixth and strongest track.
Just as one begins to wonder if the tricks have run out, a sassy vocalist enters on “common wealth,” single-handedly resurrecting trip-hop for the 21st century. “If I should go away,” she asks, “will you stand up on your own two feet?” And then she exits.
The remainder of the album is instrumental, and never again ascends to such great heights. The harder percussion is dropped, and Klive returns to the electronic experimentation of his earlier tracks. This makes for a safe album arc, but I would have preferred to have heard these tracks at the beginning, so that the album would have culminated in release rather than in post-coital bliss.
Klive’s tracks are too short – 11 songs in 37 minutes – and sometimes lack breathing room. This situation is rectified in concert, but until Klive tours the world, few will have the opportunity to experience his live show. My advice would be for Klive to poke some holes in the box, emulating the slow builds of countrymate Ben Frost. If the next album has only four long tracks, that’s okay; we’ve heard the singles, and now we’re ready for the symphony.
-Richard Allen