Antony and the Johnsons play the kind of comedown music you hear at 4 A.M in a euro-sleaze basement deep in the guts of the city. It's music you don't seek out as much as stumble across; music for those late-night self induced autism sessions that start off as a few drinks with old friends and ends in disorientation, dipsomania and despair. Antony sings like a terminally wounded angel; a voice born of regret and suffering and eternal love in the face of complete spiritual annihilation.
For the first 9 listens, it can be a bit annoying but if you breathe deeply and let it in you'll find yourself swept along by the sad(e>ness and melancholy.
I bought their self-titled album on the strength of a gig review in The Wire magazine (where they were supporting Current 93 - you can see why David Tibet wanted them close at hand) and because of the cover (who wouldn't want a record sung by that weird black-eyed baldy from the 'Venus in Furs' tyre adds?) and i think you should buy it too, if only because I'm increasingly convinced that they might well be the most heartbreaking music of all time. If David Lynch ever hears this stuff it'll be all over his next film so get in quick.
And if you think Antony's voice is annoying, just wait until the 10th listen.
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