At the rain-lashed intersection where old-school post-punk’s rattle meets coldwave’s icy chill, Desinteresse stands spare, severe, and unrepentant. Bart’s basslines boom like a heart on the brink, steady yet shaking, while Sem’s synths and guitar cut through the air like winter wind against concrete walls. This is music carved from ash and alloy, echoing the brooding romance of Asylum Party, the emotional exorcism of 4AD-era Clan of Xymox, and the early ache of The Cure.
The Dutch band dives headfirst into the world of vintage gear, tape hiss, and hands-over-hardware, making you wonder if they’re a legacy band or a yet-undiscovered treasure still buried underground. Every beat breathes with the weight of touch, the strain of intention. This is no soft romance for a retro vibe. It’s a bare-knuckled commitment. A declaration. A discipline. Their approach is tactile, tense, and true: a DIY devotion born not from trend, but from truth-seeking.
Desinteresse’s latest single, Silhouet, draws breath from Last Year at Marienbad, Alain Resnais’ 1961 monument to memory’s collapse and love’s strange afterimage. A man remembers; a woman denies. The space between them stretches like silk over wire: ornate, empty, and ever unraveling. The film’s stillness becomes sound in Silhouet: a figure frozen in a cold room, staring without speech, waiting without end. Longing lingers. The rules of the game remain unsaid, but someone always wins.
The voice cries, threaded with loss, thick with the throb of something once tender turned to ash. It drifts through the din like smoke in a sealed room, heavy, sour, unshakable. In this barren stretch, where feeling’s been filed dull and faces blur to fog, warmth becomes rumour. Love, a half-remembered fever. No chorus comforts. No balm, no benediction. Only the bitter choice remains: to drown it all in forgetting, or stare straight into the dark and name what stares back.
The accompanying clip for Silhouet sways inside that silence. Recorded entirely on tape by Romy Janssen, the video was shot between the haunted hush of The Lullabye Factory in Amsterdam and a forgotten train station in Belgium….steel, stone, and solitude. No label has claimed the band yet, but their release later this year will mark the second single from an album that promises more of Desinteresse’s patient, pointed ache. Like breath on glass. Like a memory misremembered. Like standing still at the edge of something already gone.
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