ok here is the review:
KAYO DOT
CHOIRS OF THE EYE
By DAVID STUBBS
It's heartening that so much of what purportedly has its roots in the 'Metal scene' nowadays is leaving behind the ancient trappings, the effete machismo, the hair, the tattoo parlour drivel and the Teutonic fonts and monikers associated with the genre, bringing with it only... the Metal. Kayo Dot (formerly and perhaps unwisely known as Maudlin of the Well), are a case in point. Although they vaguely arise from/have connotations with Metal/Goth, they're something else altogether. They're floating out there with the likes of Godspeed You! Black Emperor and Animal Collective, although vocalist and driving force Toby Driver occupies his own niche in that particular corner of deep space.
Choirs of the Eye takes the bipolar principle established by the likes of Nirvana to new extremes. These five tracks luxuriate agonisingly, convulse between near silence and primal, shrieking noise. Take opening track "Marathon," whose piledriving Metal is a pendulum swing away from layers of orchestration like crushed rose petals. Kayo Dot are hardly the first to engage in this sort of musical push and pull but rarely, if ever, has it been carried off with such concentrated beauty in place of squallish petulance or self-indulgence, pomp or preening.
"A Pitcher of Summer" is as heady as strawberry wine before noon, meandering quietly through glades before more sudden storms, long on intensity, short on stamina. These constant disruptions, however, prevent you from being lulled into ambient reverie and keep you alive to the lovely thunder of it all. "The Manifold Curiosity" and "Wayfarer" are similarly turbulent but again, the throb is as irresistible as it is disquieting. One oment you're suspended in a womb of prenatal bliss, the next, bursting out into the world in a Caesarian frenzy of Metal. One moment you're in some unearthly corner of Paradise with no idea how you arrived there, the next, the sky has turned black and the rain is coming down in stair rods.
Tzadik's executive producer John Zorn apparently urged Driver to think of this album in compositional terms. Driver, it seems, shrewdly resisted this pretension. More important than the structure here is his innate feel for tone poetry, as affirmed on "The Antique," whose fragile and shortlived piano passages and burdgeoning, swelling chords glisten with the tension of waiting for the bomb to drop. Utterly exquisite, utterly alive, utterly apocalyptic, this is an album with which you may well fall hopelessly in love.