Gabber Modus Operandi Puxxximaxxx Black Vinyl Edition

Aisha Devi’s Danse Noire label reissues Gabber Modus Operandi’s mindboggling combo of microtonal Balinese gamelan and screaming carnival gabber. Absolutely galaxy brain post-colonial hardfuzion free expression from one of the globe’s most fascinating duos. Originally released in 2018, Indonesian duo Gabber Modus Operandi’s debut album “puxxximaxxx” showed the world the artistic and political power of radical fusion. By bolting together trash culture, European hard dance hedonism, heavy metal/punk theatrics and Indonesian gamelan elements, Ican Harem and DJ Kasimyn came up with a “chaotic pastiche” that has by now surpassed its influences without losing its cutting sense of humor. If you heard 2019’s “hoxxxya” then you should have an idea of where GMO’s interests lie - “puxxximaxxx” is maybe more raw, more unhinged and even more flamingly carnivalesque. From the very beginning the duo make their intentions clear, wielding a wavering trumpet loop before adding 400bpm kicks that roll like a tidal wave over traditional Indonesian percussion like it’s nothing at all. There’s no hesitance in Kasimyn and Harem’s resolve, they take risks that should make most producers embarrassed. Think the Danes are putting a fresh spin on hard trance? Well listen to ‘Pariah’, that takes the “festival somewhere in the distance” supersaw sound and slathers it over rolling gabber kicks before disintegrating into wobbly, ambient ritual magick. ‘Jathilan Titan’ might be even better, wrapping those same trance leads in beating Indonesian percussion without losing the 7am-on-a-mystery-drug-cocktail essence of the ‘ardkore experience. By the time we get to ‘Goroxxx’ with its swung rhythm and dense, chattering vocal mangles, there can be no denying that “puxxximaxxx” is a unique proposition. While half of Europe is trying to recapture the sounds of a lost rave they never attended, GMO use the discarded shells of dance subgenres to cobble together a completely unique vanguard rave sound that doubles as a middle finger to the dull, aggy purists.