‘Hind Legs’ is just as weird and captivating. ‘Walkaway’ incorporates snatches of breath, pops and crackles, and what sounds like an underwater clock or piece of wheezing hospital machinery; everything feels physically close, listening on headphones feels like you’re in the room with them. ‘Gag’ is an attack of digitally crunching violence; storm-tossed industrial glitch; a soft pillow of synth drone is occasionally evident but buried beneath a hammering rhythm. ‘Fourth Floor’ sounds melted and smeared, like strange trees whipping past a train window; a melody is glimpsed in snatches, over time, the blur all that remains; a wet, vastly magnified gargle drowns the track as it is overrun with humming bloops. ‘Brutalist’ is a flickering shimmer; beautiful but with a serrated edge; a tour of a building abruptly switches to biological descriptions: a body exploded to infrastructural size. ‘Cinderella’ is full of harsh buzz and bass hum; the vocals drawling “backseat” “lips hard” “she pushed me on the floor”; a remarkable song, deeply strange and absorbing; oddly seductive, like sex music for scrapped androids.
The vocals are intertwined with the music throughout; a vital counterpoint, they often sit high in the mix, zooming in on individual anatomies: lips and thighs, hands and limbs. Jessica’s voice is a human element among deep plunging alien weirdness.
‘Hind Legs’ is like Oneohtrix Point Never soundtracking ‘Snow Crash’; human language smashed into memes and looped clipped babble; compositions built from cultural detritus, leaky lurid synth textures, and vinyl crackle.
There is something deliciously eerie and forcefully intimate about 6&8, like seeing feet poking out of the bottom of a closed pair of curtains when you know you’re alone in the house, an image of your anguished face painted onto each toenail.