NYC artist Marthyn (or M. for short) pieces together a smorgasbord of jagged lo-fi juxtapositions, further developing this middle-ground musicians’s rulebending visions and unique style in the process on the 13-track IN ABSENTIA. Seemingly strung together from a bizarre crop of spoken word rants, woe is me electronic melancholy, mashed-up DJ grooves, artsy space folk, minimalist punk, and outright personal delusions, this scattershot and vibrant composite sounds fresh off a NYC modern art punk show, spouting an uninhibited and heartfelt collection of musical musings from the perspective of an outsider looking in. While the overall aura may smother with the kind of self-absorption that ultimately dilutes the effort, there’s enough intriguing segues and a barrage of genres explored to warrant a few listens before making an informed decision on this disc.

There is also a peculiar yet unique compilation of various sounds on M's CD. One group that came to mind when I first heard these songs were the Dinosaur J. Am I right? Couldn't care less if I wasn't ...Here you will hear songs full of melancholy, a tad punk with clear sound, some acid jazz moments, a feeling that the Joy Division will pop out of somewhere, avant-garde electronic music forms, some exprimental areas, acid folk and various other musical elements which render this CD rather enticing.

Can a question become ‘lost’ if it’s subjected to endless amounts of repetition without response? Considering that so many artists ask the same questions, and offer the same answers revolving around a handful of themes, has our natural curiosity to dig deeper in the world of music and song-writing been sedated by sameness? M. lives for questions. Whether it’s his take on society, his chameleon-like genre-switching talents, or the way in which his album is presented, M. is the antithesis to all things monotonous. Nothing has been predigested for the listener, and with his latest release, In Absentia, M.’s evocative mixture of intense spoken poetry and singing beautifully works hand-in-hand with everything from metal-inspired rages to dreamy minimalist soundscapes. Exploring a number of questions on the concept of self-identity, M.’s warm vocals waste no time in “Intro: Morning Star” to see if the listener is ‘really’ there. A barrage of questions keep coming, challenging and offering ideas left and right over gentle, slow-moving strings. Information overload it is not, because the stark contrast that follows in “Xenophobia 88” suddenly brings thrash and punk-inspired riffage to the table, while simultaneously deconstructing complex social and psychological issues surrounding race perceptions. If the Bob Dylan lyrical wake isn’t enough to leave you trying to sort out all the hidden messages and questions for days on end, then the sudden narrative perspective shift may just do it. Traversing the social spectrum within seconds, “NYC B” suddenly follows the very-believable life story of a boy caught in a Catch 22 as he tries to shed the weight of negative stereotypes. However, instead of presenting yet another “woe is me” open and shut case, M. creates a fascinating dynamic wherein the concept of ‘success’ is equally weighed in both large and small achievements. The beauty of M.’s work lies in the almost inseparable and intimate relationship between the lyrical imagery and the music itself. Unlike many other artists whose lyrics could easily be retrofitted over almost any other piece of music, the strength of M.’s evocative brilliance is derived from the simple fact that each musical element works together to achieve maximum effect. Demonstrated through pieces like the acoustic-led “17” and the eerie soundscapes of “Blind Dog,” M.’s work captures the listener, involving them in an experience that is the sum of two very powerful musical parts. M.’s unrelenting gift for ear-twisting melodies is showcased once again in pieces like “Alien.” Tickling your ears for a moment, “Alien” is – in some respects – a continuation of “Xenophobia 88,” calling forth a melancholic organ that flourishes into a punk-inspired distorted guitar fury. But it’s only a benchmark, as M. goes on to out do himself in the Latin-flavoured “Carnaval,” decorated in trumpet calls, shifting drum passages, police sirens and M.’s own Spanish vocals. While partly his neurotic charm, what characterizes M.’s work is the simple fact that one song doesn’t always mean ‘one’ song. “Yr. 2001,” for instance, not only strikes with a towering force, but within the time pressures of no more than three minutes, M. effectively makes it feel as though there are multiple of songs within one – a feat that often takes most progressive rock groups upwards of ten minutes to often achieve. In Absentia is aural stimulation of the best kind. Not only is it challenging and provoking, it is a rare album that will – no matter what – leave a lasting mark on the way you think about the power of music. So back to the ultimate question: can a question become lost if it’s subjected to endless repetition? According to M., yes, it can… on a regular basis, in fact. M.’s impeccable ability to reach beyond all things familiar and safe reveals a new dimension of creativity and curiosity waiting to be tapped into. And thankfully, M.’s gotten to it first.

Brooklyn-based, Post-Rock experimentalist, M. comes at us with A third convention-flouting outing. “…Like a Dylan-fug, like a fuzzy-wug…” so said Sonic Youth’s Thurston Moore on the intro to their tour video, ‘The Year That Punk Broke’. M. has certainly a little in common with some old skool Thurston-style nonsense, non-verse, freeform, intoxicated ramblings. A remarkably reminiscent jumble of babblings, uttered over a backdrop of ambient orchestrata, form the intro and intermissions to his third long-player, ‘In Absentia’. The overall influence of Sonic Youth, along with Fugazi and Shellac is apparent as M. stutters and convulses through a dichotomy of post-rock: churning, repetitive, no-wave punk meshed with avant-garde experimentalism - replacing the usual chaotic, noise guitar renderings with experimental digital media - is suddenly cleanly severed in favour of Slint/Ranaldo-esque spoken word interludes and, at times, what sounds like abstract amateur art-DJing. If I use the ‘forward-slash’ punctuation mark to separate words, then do think of it as a literary sever: a symbol for two clearly different, defined themes cut and shut together, for the duration of this article. It’s as if someone with acute ADD has made a mash-up of the genres encompassed in the above paragraph, as they are all present but not as key ingredients of a melting pot but more as designated representatives at a UN summit; all there as individuals rather than blending within a group. Their jostling for space is all the more entertaining for it, though. The same somewhat repetitive, plodding instrumentation and droning vocals that blight Shellac releases in places can threaten to drag down what would otherwise be a more enjoyable as well as ambitious record, but ‘17’ glides in as a nod to classic album construction, and brings us a sombre, enjoyable, if a little obvious piece to regain an equilibrium before launching into a rapturous spoken-word/screaming punk track, ‘Alien’… The only problem with it being that it is a bit of a one trick pony. Despite these criticisms, do bear in mind that in a time of asymmetrical-fringe-and-tight-trouser-over-content, what M. is doing is by far and away more bold, valuable and rewarding than the Beach Boys imitations and tried-and-true root chord progressions that pass for an alternative in most quarters currently. This is a confused, head-spinning, flawed, multi-generic and occasionally marvellous record that can get lost in it’s own pretension. M. seems to me that he might have the makings of the next Daniel Johnston. As ‘Thurston @ 13’ might sum up, “What you are about to hear is something extraordinary… There.”