Khanate is the sort of band that elicits visceral more than aural
responses. The quartet’s previous albums have been
listener-challeng-ing records packed with last-breath shrieks, abrasive
low end, constant feedback and the sort of dissonance that raises hairs
and conjures images of car crashes. The band’s swan song, the four-song
Clean Hands Go Foul, is a fitting final note, with its
disturbingly uncomfortable moods and emotionally affecting washes of
noise. These tracks aren’t songs as much as explosions of desperation
and tension. The drumming is scattered and erratic, switching from the
pitter-patter of children’s feet to the sound of windows shattering.
The guitar and bass are detuned, moaning monstrosities that give a
whole new to meaning to the term “wall of sound,” before they suddenly
rip through a track like a jarring alarm clock ending an eerie dream.
Singer Alan Dubin’s hawk-cry barrages may be the most unsettling aspect
of Khanate’s sound. His screams and groans are like your deepest fears
made real and — combined with the deconstructed noise of his
bandmates — make for a complex panorama of unsettling emotions.
—Whelihan
This article appears in May 27 – Jun 2, 2009.
