It’s very possible it’s too warm in Georgia for me to love ice-fracture split-hair minimal right now, regardless of how lush the undercurrents and how warm the snares. As such, I can’t wrap myself in Ellen Allien’s recently-released Sool just yet…and if you know me, dear reader, you know what a tough, tender, delicate admission that is for me to make.

I am ready to make no final call, though; no “official” review or declaration of quality (or lack of) has yet come from my several early-morning and late-night listens. Depending on my mood, the external temperature and the time of day, Sool either exhilarates me or annoys the fucking hell out of me with Ellen’s tongue-click half-coughs of beat construction. Either this will be a victory, combining two of the most exciting German producers in recent memory (who just happen to be female, I could write a treatise on how Sool is reclaiming the inherent feminine mystique that mininmal techno lost to the fatfrat beerboy gang, but I’ll spare everyone), AGF and Ellen, or this album will go down next to Medulla in the cut-out bin, to be passed over in favor of the original master of Doolittle.

All that said, I can, in fact, fault Ellen for releasing a record this spiked and frosty in FUCKING SUMMER. -10.

Some of these songs, though, are instantly amazing +10. We’re back at neutral.

While I tally this up, an aural taster:

Ellen Allien: Caress

This is gentle genius, and proof of the dual hands of AGF and Ellen sweeping across the board. Ellen’s half-speak touches those snares, as the electro pads threaten to actually emerge from the darkness but don’t. This is sexonwax foreplay.

The rest of the album remains to be seen.

It’s very possible it’s too warm in Georgia for me to love ice-fracture split-hair minimal right now, regardless of how lush the undercurrents and how warm the snares. As such, I can’t wrap myself in Ellen Allien’s recently-released Sool just yet…and if you know me, dear reader, you know what a tough, tender, delicate admission that is for me to make.

I am ready to make no final call, though; no “official” review or declaration of quality (or lack of) has yet come from my several early-morning and late-night listens. Depending on my mood, the external temperature and the time of day, Sool either exhilarates me or annoys the fucking hell out of me with Ellen’s tongue-click half-coughs of beat construction. Either this will be a victory, combining two of the most exciting German producers in recent memory (who just happen to be female, I could write a treatise on how Sool is reclaiming the inherent feminine mystique that mininmal techno lost to the fatfrat beerboy gang, but I’ll spare everyone), AGF and Ellen, or this album will go down next to Medulla in the cut-out bin, to be passed over in favor of the original master of Doolittle.

All that said, I can, in fact, fault Ellen for releasing a record this spiked and frosty in FUCKING SUMMER. -10.

Some of these songs, though, are instantly amazing +10. We’re back at neutral.

While I tally this up, an aural taster:

Ellen Allien: Caress

This is gentle genius, and proof of the dual hands of AGF and Ellen sweeping across the board. Ellen’s half-speak touches those snares, as the electro pads threaten to actually emerge from the darkness but don’t. This is sexonwax foreplay.

The rest of the album remains to be seen.