Michael Ferentino has unleashed a new, audio exploit: the weird and wonderful Concrete Platform Shoes.
The album holds nine tracks and starts off with a retro crawl, interspersed with mean, kinetic spurts (i.e. hip, wild chirps). To me, the audio tapestry tells of traveling the streets in jazzy, Sonny Bono shoes, shuffling to a hot, Soul Train tune or maybe reflecting on a self-effacing joke in spite of oneself, and yet through it all, a heavy foreboding snags one's feet, thanks by Ferentino's admonishing beats.
Within his second and third selections, the ominous atmosphere thickens, ushered (good gosh) by an Arthur Fleck guffaw. The streets look and sound demonic under Ferentino's exotic notes. Cars swerve. Strings are plucked, as derelict children converse in blissful ignorance. Neon lights burn farther down the forlorn lane, as seedy citizens spring from alleys, peddling their vials of doom. The sounds here are rain-swept and temptation-wrought, represented by more maddened vocals that reference a strange party, the weight of weird, porn-torn loneliness and the threat that anything and everything can and will kill you, strung by a country-western vibe that's foreshadowed by a Van Cleave piano, Asian chimes and ultimately an incensed, guitar rift. Throughout it all, one desires an about-face, but the nocturnal peril glues one's soles into place.
In the fourth and fifth tracks, the streets are underscored by a New Wave, quixotic quest, flavored by an invading, foreign dictation and an audio-book sampling of The Iliad, with all the vain (public-domain) adventure one could hope to gain. One's burdened, platform heels now lift, clicking to a deadly drumroll, but which direction should one take? Though the music uplifts, a Texas Ranger lies in ardent wait.
The sixth track continues the judicious threat, crashing hard with squishing industrialization. Its structure soon slips from a mocking, Mae West refrain into a self-help gal's gullet. Bells batter one's brain, halting any chance for sleep. Should one remain out in the open or crawl beneath? The need to buy a fix, to grow numb with "another one of these," seems the only ineffectual solution.
Track seven rolls forth with a child's starry-eyed naivety, but the transmuting harshness is hard to overtake. The world, through Ferentino's anguished utterances, creates a repetitive, outward asylum, an anchoring, hellish haven better suited to a downtrodden dog or warbling, alley cat.
In tracks eight and nine, the buildup is subtle, but at least the combination dials inner strength. The steamy groove is Miami Vice, or any 1980s trek into the night. However, as one presses on, one's misguided zest for alteration dangles (along with one's pride), fading like a dying signal: not such a bad thing, for in its completeness, the platformed fever has cooled, reminding one that sometimes it's better to travel light than be hardened like concrete.
Concrete Platform Shoes offers unimpeded, urban psychedelia. It captures all the rarified constructions one would expect from Ferentino, but it also stands as an isolated, transcendental hike into sobering humility.
Slip on Ferentino's shoes at
https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=OLAK5uy_mzlDAWR9yqkH65bRm_fCAhgD3AHCbP-MA
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