Faust - self titled - new LP 180gm clear vinyl

Label: Lilith – LR138
Format: Vinyl, LP, Album, Reissue, Clear, 180 gr
Country: Russia
Released: 2007

The trip begins with “Why Don’t You Eat Carrots,” a collage of absurdist theatre and sound sculpture. Its snarling guitar feedback, shuddering electronics and tape-scratched pop samples mutate into a post-structuralist meltdown. From there horns squeal, pianos splinter and voices swirl in delay, as if the entirety of a circus is being squeezed through the hoop of a bubble blower, leaving us to watch the whole spectacle bend, shake and shimmer in the sunlight.

Next, “Meadow Meal” opens with resonant industrial tones, like air forced through plumbing, and gradually blossoms into a surrealist jazz-folk ritual. Fingerpicked guitar cohabits with blasts of reverb-heavy organ and beat-poet vocal incantations. At its heart lies a groove so deep and syncopated it borders on funk, only to collapse into chaos once more. And then there is “Miss Fortune”, a 16-minute live improvisation soaked in hashish and reverb. One-note bass lines throb like minimalist mantras beneath swirling organs and mutant sax. Drums stutter toward cohesion and then back away in terror. Guitars unravel into smoke. 

Despite the experimental nature, surrealist lyrics and a complete rejection of conventional music form, this isn’t an over intellectual exercise, or a display of w

The trip begins with “Why Don’t You Eat Carrots,” a collage of absurdist theatre and sound sculpture. Its snarling guitar
feedback, shuddering electronics and tape-scratched pop samples mutate into a post-structuralist meltdown. Stones’
“Satisfaction” and Beatles’ “All You Need Is Love” are reduced to spectral phrases, mocking the very idea of cultural
consensus. From there horns squeal, pianos splinter and voices swirl in delay, as if the entirety of a circus is being squeezed through the hoop of a bubble blower, leaving us to watch the whole spectacle bend, shake and shimmer in the sunlight. Next, “Meadow Meal” opens with resonant industrial tones, like air forced through plumbing, and gradually blossoms into a surrealist jazz-folk ritual. Fingerpicked guitar cohabits with blasts of reverb-heavy organ and beat-poet vocal incantations. At its heart lies a groove so deep and syncopated it borders on funk, only to collapse into chaos once more. And then there is “Miss Fortune”, a 16-minute live improvisation soaked in hashish and reverb. One-note bass lines throb like minimalist mantras beneath swirling organs and mutant sax. Drums stutter toward cohesion and then back away in terror. Guitars unravel into smoke. And in the final moments, the music recedes, leaving behind a broken narrative, fragmented speech, laughter, coughs, like a bedtime story told by ghosts of a Europe still recovering from war.

Despite the experimental nature, surrealist lyrics and a complete rejection of conventional music form, this isn’t an over intellectual exercise, or a display of willful antagonism. Instead, Faust packed these three sprawling, sputtering pieces with the breadth of human emotion, capturing the chaos and complexity of existence in an audio analogue to Jackson Pollock’s abstract expressionism. More than 50 years on, it remains a thrilling reminder of what can happen when artists abandon the map and follow instinct instead.