Initially a socially-distanced pandemic project, Terms is a two-piece band featuring Chris Trull (Yowie, Grand Ulena), and Danny Piechocki (Ahleuchatistas). Making music that defies easy categorisation, the band initially worked at a distance, split between Tampa Bay, Florida, and St Louis, Missouri, but the vitality of their debut encouraged further sonic exploration. Finally, with the pandemic passed, Terms were able to come together to further hone their unique sound and even indulge in some live dates, all of which built up nicely to the release of their sophomore LP, All Becomes Indistinct.
I’ll be honest, reviewing this isn’t going to be easy. Terms’ music is fragmentary and diverse, drawing on a range of genres, to arrive at a destination that is invariably an unexpected diversion from the point of departure. Reference points are possible to locate, although they frequently rise out of the melting pot, only to disappear once more, rather like a sonic take on Arnie’s fist at the end of Terminator 2. Take opening number Still Sour / Makin’ Ennui as an example – drawing from freeform jazz, for a moment it suggests a digression into Dillinger Escape Plan territory, only for elements of Fugazi to assert themselves before a frantic finale returns us, once more, to more metallic pastures. It’s ferociously played and beautifully produced, and the band have already moved on to the post-hardcore Botch-isms of Teetering Scree before the listener truly has a chance to draw breath. However, if the hulking great riffs of Teetering Scree suggest an easier ride is emerging, the scattershot Soup Of The Day soon forces the listener to renegotiate their perception, as elements of Fantomas and Sonic Youth combine for a sub-one-minute piece that simply batters you into submission.
Rather more nimble is Blusterguts! a creeping, discordant piece that appears to revel in a rather more linear progression before devolving into a freeform nightmare of stabbing guitar and cyclical rhythms. And so it goes. The short Keep My Urn is a whimsical piece that sounds like Miles Davis updated for the Black Flag audience, while the equally svelte The Plummet Section returns to the Fugazi-isms of Still Sour / Makin’ Ennui. The first half ends with How To Talk To Your Kids About Poetry, a sonic battering ram of rhythmic invention that leaves the listener having a panic attack on the floor.
With the first half having come to a conclusion amidst a welter of sub-two-minute pieces, the second half of the album opens with the decaying turntable nightmare of First Existential, a five-minute exploration that brings to mind Pink Floyd’s aborted Household Objects project. Marginally calmer is the stair-stepping Blurred Photo Of A Fragment Of A Drawing, which at least allows some element of respite in advance of the dizzying Points For Composure. The band delve further into the world of the abstract with the reverse-phased Injurer, which is so mired in sonic murk, it sounds as if it were recorded underwater. In an interview, Thom Yorke discussed feeling sick on hearing Bitches Brew for the first time, only appreciating the album having put himself through it a few more times. Injurer is much the same, but persevere, because it’s worth it if you can get past the motion sickness the opening induces.
Next up, a strange sideways shuffle into the world of ambient trip hop sees the band craft a mesmerising soundscape on Lack Of All Trades, only for the mercifully brief Tambourine Drop to shatter the atmosphere in a manner that, even by the album’s already frantic standards, feels shocking. It’s merely a segue, though, bringing the listener, a willing sacrifice, to the lengthy closer of Sleep Until It’s Colder, a hypnotic piece that somehow helps to bring the listener back to the world they abandoned the second the needle hit the first groove.
That this is not a record for everyone should already be obvious. Terms make music for themselves first and foremost and, if the listener should want to come along for the ride, all well and good, but only at their own risk. Broadly speaking, the exceptional musicianship and wide-eyed sense of innovation should appeal to fans of Fugazi, Sonic Youth, Fantomas and, perhaps, jazz fans who appreciate the genre pushed to its very limit and crossed, in unholy union, with punk’s most feral urges. It is a remarkable work, more art than album, but for those willing to undertake the journey, it’s an incredibly rewarding and original piece of music. 9/10
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