It’s imminent the collapse of his surroundings
To break the cold with detached expectancy
Before I wade into the lonely fire
I must reject my gilded infancy
It is said that time can erode all things, but there are moments when lost fragments resurface, clearer and sharper than before, casting light into forgotten corners. A Gentle Collapsing, the unearthed treasure from post-punk trio Remnant Three, is one such fragment—a spectral apparition of an era, lying dormant for over three decades. Recorded and shelved, this album embodies the spirit of its time, capturing the sense of drifting, unmoored existence with an aching intimacy. Borrowing its name from Talking Heads’ “The Overload,” this collection of songs plunges deep into the post-punk psyche, crafting a unique atmosphere out of the cold detachment and fleeting, fragile joy characteristic of the genre. Here, think of the visceral angst of Joy Division, the shadowed tones of Faith-era Cure, and the dark processions of early New Order, and the poetic intricacies of Sad Lovers and Giants.
As the millennium turned, Minneapolis label Words on Music managed to coax the defunct Remnant Three out of their self-imposed silence, convincing them to release this forgotten work. What followed was a delicate restoration of the original Fostex 8-track reel-to-reel source tapes, allowing the songs to finally breathe in their intended form.
Remnant Three has always shunned the spotlight, determined to let the music speak for itself. Their ethos? Strip away the unnecessary noise of “who” and “where.” For them, the essence of art lies in the “what.” There’s no backstory to confine them, no names or dates to anchor them to any one place or identity. Theirs is a purity that insists the listener focus only on the raw emotion and soundscapes they’ve meticulously constructed—timeless and unmoored, a challenge to any notion of linear progression or relevance.
Learning their instruments as they went along, the trio approached music-making like an obsessive ritual. The drums were a fixation—they would toil for hours to perfect their sound using only a sparse arsenal of effects. Recording live, they filled two tracks with the drum sound and stretched the remaining six to their limits, experimenting with tape manipulation and reverse echo, like an alchemist refining base materials into gold. The commitment to their craft is evident on every track; each beat, each bassline channels the urgency and darkness of the late ’70s and early ’80s post-punk underground.
A Gentle Collapsing opens with “The Gilded Infancy,” a track paired with a stark black-and-white video that traverses desolate landscapes—a broken trestle bridge, a solitary chimney standing where a home once was, the quiet persistence of a waterfall, and an abandoned orchard. Each frame a quiet cry of absence, of something lost to time’s relentless erosion. The music, too, captures this spectral feeling: deep, resonant guitars blend with a vocal delivery that’s more incantation than singing, accompanied by synths that whisper like wind over an empty plain. It’s a visual and sonic poem of loss and resilience, beauty that aches with every note and every breath, lingering like the faint shadow of a bruise that never quite heals.
Remnant Three’s sneaky, sharp songwriting stands out on Permanent. The tom-tom drumming, nodding with equal reverence to Joy Division’s Stephen Morris and And Also The Trees. The otherworldly, Cure-esque guitars dance with angular bass, with both instruments spiraling into more intricate loops. This is old-school post-punk perfection, with a seductive vocal like a troubadour lulling you into a trance.
From the moment “Permanent” drifts into the fray, the album’s intensity only deepens, anchoring the listener in a soundscape both familiar and newly invigorated. The track’s tom-heavy drumming calls back to Stephen Morris of Joy Division, while also nodding to the haunting minimalism of And Also The Trees. Layered atop are the chiming, Cure-esque guitars and a serpentine bassline that coils around itself, creating a trance-like atmosphere. This is post-punk in its purest form, a blend of brooding nostalgia and raw immediacy, pulling you further into its darkly seductive embrace.
The journey continues with Anomie, which taps into a headier, late ‘60s psych-rock vibe, yet retains that post-punk edge. Here, the band channels the existential poise of English folk, the piercing intensity of Jefferson Airplane, and the stark, austere minimalism of early Joy Division. The Predicant tips its hat to Spacemen 3 as the band toys with backward vocal tape echo, setting them against hypnotic drums and pounding piano. There is a timeless gothic rock meets alt-rock sound to it with the rousing bass and guitars, thudding like heartbeats. It channels the intensity of The Cure and Joy Division at their darkest as the vocal guides us down a narrow corridor of mystery and sorrow.
Words Are Fading lures the listener into an entranced state, with vocals that glide over an undulating melody shaped by an Eastern scale. The result is reminiscent of the early, haunting work of Dead Can Dance, with a 1960s garage rock influence seeping through the fuzz-laden drone. This is music that wraps around you like a mist—otherworldly and timeless, where every note is tinged with both nostalgia and yearning. Uncertain of Fire opens as a somber dirge, marked by a sorrowful guitar that intertwines with a deep, steady bassline and ethereal synths. The hushed, almost whispered vocals add to the sense of introspection and solitude, like a confession lost to the wind.
A Cold Removal takes this mournful progression further. A jangling hi-hat and a slow, marching beat lay the groundwork for a composition that gradually lifts, allowing rays of brighter, jangly melodies to pierce through. This song feels like a melancholic awakening, drawing comparisons to the atmospheric depths of Dif Juz or even the more experimental edges of early Yes. The vocal harmonies here are delicate, almost angelic, guiding the melody through its haunting journey from darkness to a tentative light.
As the album draws to a close with M.L., Remnant Three plunges us deep into a soundscape that could only emerge from the earliest days of Factory Records. The drums are portent, ominous, and commanding, while the guitars and synths swirl in a vortex of despair, evoking a sense of aftermath and reflection. It’s ritualistic and mournful, but also transcendent, drawing from the otherworldly psychedelia of King Crimson—a haunting litany that brings the album to its final, evocative end.
At last, Remnant Three’s A Gentle Collapsing will receive its long-overdue physical release on vinyl and compact disc on September 13, 2024. This album is a testament to the timeless spirit of post-punk—a genre forever caught between the past and an uncertain future, much like the music of Remnant Three itself.
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