Chachi Jones

It's not so much a case of what Chachi Jones expects of listeners but what he subjects them to. A pioneer in bleeding-edge headphone-electro, Jones deals in circuit-bending, a dada style that smuggles toys, power tools, and other sampled objects into bizarre synth moonscapes. One minute listeners are being sucked...

By Eric W. Saeger

May 25, 2006

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It's not so much a case of what Chachi Jones expects of listeners but what he subjects them to. A pioneer in bleeding-edge headphone-electro, Jones deals in circuit-bending, a dada style that smuggles toys, power tools, and other sampled objects into bizarre synth moonscapes. One minute listeners are being sucked into a raging Hoover ("AM Hits") and the next they're the innocent recipients of darting licks from a vocoder's sandpaper tongue ("Sckracker") or an aria of scratching from an old Speak & Spell ("Energy at Rest"). Jones's cauldron bubbles over with static Morse code, crackle-jazz beat envy, and mercurial weirdness, comparable in some respects to Haujobb as far as possessing the ability to insinuate itself into the daily grind as background stress relief, but danceability isn't a factor here (unless you're inclined to bust into rubbery spasms to the beat of a recycling truck rattling down a bumpy back street). Flowing indefatigably between babbling groove and pit stops to gather steam, the album is an inelegant but daring call to arms for futurists ready for new inspiration.

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