Part curse, part declaration, part Rorschach test, Varg’s new collection of EPs is a barely balanced inferno. Side by side, raw club burners arrive from the wretched plateaus levelled out by chaotic neurotransmissions, while sweet and soft anthems take the pain away.
The first EP, Sky City: Even in the Heart of Heaven, Angels Can Still Feel Fear, affirms Varg’s deft and agile take on techno. Here minimalism spars with blissed out programming, unafraid to pepper sedate hooks with intricate percussive rufige. With each track’s eyes on the raving kru, Varg restates his permit to take it to the floor. It’s foreboding, but it always has been—and Sky City: A Weak Heart to Break (Spit) makes this its method. Launching itself under the opening track’s dazzling melancholic sweep, the EP loses its way in every direction at once by the last track’s glitching gabber meltdown. Fair warning is required for the demonic and cosmically unhinged piece of rhythmic noise that begins the second side.
“Pineal gland death trek. Hiking to jump into perfect artificial paradise.
‘I can’t explain myself. I’m afraid of this,’ **** mouthed to herself as she started to walk across the floor. Every plain clothes cop tracked her. Every single one of them is watching you because you’re not feeling yourself, you see.
There’s too much in you. You’ve done too much of it all. How many times have you ducked into the toilet? Think for a second. Is this your second or fifth drink? Go in to a cubicle now. I know you know the small bag from memory, but why does it look so different this time. Why can’t you remember any of this time?
All the commotion becomes floating emotions. Trying to sing to the bit you thought you knew but it isn’t the one. You’re not even in this room. You’re fucked.
I could see a new world with my middle eye, a world I had missed before. I caught images behind images, the walls behind the sky, the sky behind the infinite.
The state of mind too can be a critical one; razor-like, one finds oneself sensitive to the slightest equivocation in anyone’s demeanour.
Clairvoyance and paranormality. Rhythmic hell-scapes. Your body coughing up antisocial gifts. If I could trust any surface I’d lean into it. I’m woozy with anxiety and my motor skills are against me.
Everyone on the floor is livid and dead.
What have I become? Scared for my life as I check to see how close security are in case I OD. I saw my friends in that room destroyed by madness starving hysterical.”