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Kyte - Kyte
Squeezed like sardines into a dilapidated barn in the middle of the Oxfordshire countryside we stand in quiet ore. In the midst of the splendid Truck Festival a young band have taken to the stage and - bereft of any kind of fanfare - have blown our collective minds. Kyte - a slight troupe from Leicester, England - crouch over their instruments, gazing past their shoes and through the floor, as they piece together one magical post-rock collage after another. Within 30 short minutes they're gone; vanishing from the stage behind a sea of clapping hands and eerie vapour trails. Yet the quality of the performance stays, casting a long shadow over the rest of the festival. How could something so exquisite possibly be topped this weekend?
Ten days later and 'Kyte' is unravelling slowly from my stereo. Glacial, considered and untouchably beautiful, it's a different beast to Kyte live. Less manic, more poetic, it glides through seven songs without the insecurity of live guitar fuzz to hide any discrepancies. The opening couplet of 'Planet ' and 'Boundaries' bath in the soft light of Sigur Ros, but the Kyte sound is perhaps warmer and a touch more intimate than that of their Icelandic heroes.
Other shoe-gazing touchstones are evident, but these two songs are a brave new re-interpretation of the model. As gentle, understated re-workings of the post-rock blueprint they shepherd us into an album of layered instrumentals (think a falsetto-led Explosions In The Sky) and the sporadic glimpse of raw pop sensibilities ('Sunlight').
Occasionally a song ('They Won't Sleep') drifts for minutes on end, circling piano lines and drums turning relentlessly in on themselves, but, where in other hands such repetition frustrates and grinds away the joy (The Radio Dept for example), here it's an undoubted revelation.
It's abundantly clear that, alongside their jaw-dropping live show, 'Kyte' marks Kyte out as a band with a colossal future. Few albums will touch you so personally this year and, in an age where average is seemingly celebrated, it's a glorious indication of the musical creativity this Fair Isle has to offer, as long as you take the time to look hard enough.
What joy a weekend in the sticks can bring.
Matt Brown
Ten days later and 'Kyte' is unravelling slowly from my stereo. Glacial, considered and untouchably beautiful, it's a different beast to Kyte live. Less manic, more poetic, it glides through seven songs without the insecurity of live guitar fuzz to hide any discrepancies. The opening couplet of 'Planet ' and 'Boundaries' bath in the soft light of Sigur Ros, but the Kyte sound is perhaps warmer and a touch more intimate than that of their Icelandic heroes.
Other shoe-gazing touchstones are evident, but these two songs are a brave new re-interpretation of the model. As gentle, understated re-workings of the post-rock blueprint they shepherd us into an album of layered instrumentals (think a falsetto-led Explosions In The Sky) and the sporadic glimpse of raw pop sensibilities ('Sunlight').
Occasionally a song ('They Won't Sleep') drifts for minutes on end, circling piano lines and drums turning relentlessly in on themselves, but, where in other hands such repetition frustrates and grinds away the joy (The Radio Dept for example), here it's an undoubted revelation.
It's abundantly clear that, alongside their jaw-dropping live show, 'Kyte' marks Kyte out as a band with a colossal future. Few albums will touch you so personally this year and, in an age where average is seemingly celebrated, it's a glorious indication of the musical creativity this Fair Isle has to offer, as long as you take the time to look hard enough.
What joy a weekend in the sticks can bring.
Matt Brown
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