Drab Majesty – ‘The Demonstration’

By Glen Bushell

Picture the scene, if you will: a dark Los Angeles side street. A neon sign hangs above a door to beckon you into a club. Amidst piercing strobes and a wall of dry ice stands the androgynous Deb Demure; Part Aladdin Sane-era David Bowie, part Genesis P-orridge, and the creative force behind Drab Majesty. That’s the image that ‘The Demonstration’ conjures from the outset. You may have never been to such a place, but you are transported there from the moment you hit play.

Forged in such a setting, the second album from darkwave enigma, Drab Majesty, is far more refined than its predecessor, ‘Careless’. The vision of Demure has been fully realized, helped by the treacle thick production of Josh Eustis (Nine Inch Nails, Telefon Tel Aviv), blossoming like a solitary rose among a thorn bush.

The heavy inclusion of 80’s synthwave washes over the rich instrumentation of ‘The Demonstration’, as the electronic drum beats of ‘Dot In The Sky’ echo amongst intricate guitar lines and bright keys. Demure’s ethereal vocal melodies wax and wane from soft allure to soaring melody during ’39 By Design’, oozing sensual charisma and sexuality.

There is a clear post-punk influence buried within the lush textures of ‘Too Soon To Tell’, while ‘Cold Souls’ harks back to the new romantic era. Yet with a passion for a sound of old, ‘The Demonstration’ is far from dated. It pays homage to the past with a futuristic, otherworldly view.

With its triggered drums and frantic pace, ‘Kissing The Ground’ keeps the album interesting as it comes to a close. It falls back into the glacial haze of ‘Forget Tomorrow’, before pounding 808’s drive ‘Behind The Wall’ into layers of synths that fade out into the abyss at its cadence.

With the lines between electronic music, and what is collectively called ‘alternative’, so blurred you can barely see them, Drab Majesty possess the appeal to seductively crossover into both. ‘The Demonstration’ is an album for the middle of the night. It’s the dirty decadence of black-lit dance floor, the after-party comedown, and the next day regret of debauchery rolled into one.

GLEN BUSHELL

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