There’s something charming about the naivety of bands who don’t seem to have a clue about what they’re doing, how they’re playing or what on earth they’re trying to achieve. Maybe it’s something to do with their jazz background, but Michael Jordyn and Greg (a trio, rather than a pun of the basketball great) don’t seem to have any idea what they’re doing pretty much all of the time. It’s almost as if each member has set out playing completely different songs to each other, a new twist of the purposefully terrible nature of the lo-fi scene – and it’s weirdly gripping.
The songs are inconsistent and unpredictable, a few verging on actually sounding like they might be pop songs, others sounding like a few instruments falling down the stairs whilst a television plays on in the background, regardless, or like if Islet listened to more Sarah Records LPs. Somewhere down the line, we might be able to make sense of it all, give it a name and have done with it, but for the minute, though, it’s bewildering. Whilst Michael Jordyn and Greg are not the kind of thing that you’ll be having on repeat on your iPod, but it’s good to have them on there in case you need to find out where you boundaries lay. Maybe this is the future of jazz, all fucked up, incomprehensible but still, on some level, pretty good.