一聽音樂網

In both his solo work as Tobacco and as the frontman of Pittsburgh-based synth-psych outfit Black Moth Super Rainbow, Thomas Fec has trafficked over the years in the weird, the uncanny, the not-quite-right. He's done so by taking human elements—often his own voice—and corroding them using filters like vocoder, talk box, and compressed synths that shudder like an atelectatic lung. Like filmmaker David Cronenberg, Fec sees, contained in technology, the most grotesque parts of ourselves.

On Tobacco's 2010 album Maniac Meat, Fec was able to change guest-star Beck's speak-sing baritone into something strange and mildly sinister. With 2014's Ultima II Massage, Fec created muscular pop that was as fetid as it was approachable. But after three albums of increasingly warped solo experiments, Fec's new album Sweatbox Dynasty tries for a slightly less confrontational, still-unconventional take on synthpop.

From the first track, “Human Om,” the keyboards alone make it clear that Sweatbox Dynasty is a Tobacco product. Like much of the album, the track takes a deconstructed drum break and overlays compressed synths and Fec's voice, with processing that alternates between robo-bizarro and playground sweet: “You can be my light come up in the morning/And I can be your spiral spinnin' down,” he sings. “Gods in Heat” comes the closest to approaching the gonzo pop of Ultima II Massage's best tracks. Though the lyrics are almost impossibly obscured, Fec's voice anchors the track with a huge chorus—as bubblegum as it is bleak.

When Tobacco's first solo album, Fucked Up Friends, came out in 2008, Fec's degraded, deranged approach felt legitimately dangerous. By peeling the skin off of hip-hop, synthpop, and psychedelia, Fec exposed something diseased behind pop's waxy veneer. But the world has changed, and now Fec's warped view is mainstream, from “Tim and Eric”'s absurdist horror-comedy to Death Grips digi-fucked rap. So, yes, part of the reason Sweatbox Dynasty doesn't hit as hard as past efforts has to do with how accustomed we've become to Tobacco's worldview. But the reality is that these tracks are often just weaker versions of his past work. Whereas Fec previously balanced atmospheric cuts with outright freakouts, Sweatbox Dynasty leans much more heavily on the former, and the resulting tracks, like “Warlock Mary” and “Home Invisionaries,” bubble along but never seem to coalesce. And album closer “Let's Get Worn Away”—though occasionally quite pretty, in its own Fecified way—can't justify its six minutes-plus runtime.

Also missing is much of the dark comedy that defines Tobacco's best work: Fec's most disturbing songs were often his funniest, but Sweatbox Dynasty rarely allows Fec's puckish side to rise from the muck. Another horror film director, the Italian Giallo master Dario Argento, said “You must push everything to the absolute limit or else life will be boring.” It's a maxim that Tobacco has embraced in the past, but one that he shies away from here. Still, if you want revulsion and titillation in equal measure, few producers achieve the balance—even on their off days—like Tobacco.