Wyatting: verb (to Wyatt), to deliberately pick fucked up tunes to play at a crowded event, often with the purpose of disrupting said event, though it could also be done unintentionally by some social moron, or purposefully by some needy entitled douche-bottled art-fuck rudely informing the world that they’re into weird kinda shit. The term references Robert Wyatt because many of his albums would be a great choice for a practicing Wyatter. Other genres on this list may include euro-prog-metal, improv, noise, or free jazz.
Robert Wyatt is such a strange motherfucker, he’s a verb. This is an actual thing. I didn’t make this shit up. Way back when, Wyatt was one of the singers and the drummer for the crazy influential band Soft Machine. Following a fall from a window in ’73, which led to Wyatt becoming a paraplegic, he left the band work and started an awesome, strange, and WTFing solo career that lasted forty years. He retired in ’14, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t recordings out there that predate his retirement. For example: this fucking album.
The Future Eve is composed of a hella esoteric Japanese musician that goes by the name Th. The what-in-the-who-now? Th. That’s the name he goes by. I would say it’s a strange sort of name, but look who’s fucking talking. Back in the ’80s, he went by the moniker Tomo Akikawabaya which isn’t much better and is equally as strange if you’re Japanese. Before this? Th was in the band Desperate Bicycles before getting booted out of the UK over visa shit. Now, how did crazy Japanese obscurity come to make an album with famous left-field musician Robert Wyatt? Th mailed Wyatt some tapes, Wyatt responded. They kept sending versions of songs back and forth and slowly built this album.
Considering the strangeness of these two, you’d think a collaborative album might be named, “Collected Recordings From the Fat-Flightless-Sexually Frigid-Nocturnal Parrot, the Kakapo.” Instead, we get something else entirely. This shit feels like what Martians listen on their well-deserved vacation to the super Saturn spa special. This album’s otherworldly waves bathe throughout the room with ease. I wouldn’t suggest playing this at a party, not because it’s strange, but because it’s so chill. There’s something deeper within this album, something elusive and tenuous. While making this album, Th lost his mother. He made these recordings while reflecting on heady shit like life, death, and reincarnation. Such a headspace and intent is not lost in this album. Supposedly Wyatt was studying topics like metempsychosis (the soul’s reincarnation into other bodies or beings) while making this album. And I’ve got to admit even when I didn’t know any of this shit, I was thinking about transmigrational palingenesis Nietzschean fuckery while listening to this motherfucker. Could this be coincidence? Oh hells to the fuck ya. But this was a fantastic soundtrack to this mind frame. So if you happen to be a Wyatter in the middle of a party all about theories on the afterlife, don’t play this album. But if you’re all about that transcendental shit? Here’s your motherfucking alien spa.