Chief amongst the modern age’s extravagant weirdness is the lumbering orange gonk enthroned in the Whitehouse. Language has remained almost powerless to explain it. And now, even a year on, a large swathe of the planet still wakes up in the morning and begs an answer from whatever deity they hold sacred to give them an answer, an explanation, as to how the actual fuck Donald Trump became President of the United States of America.
Still, we’ve had a while to think on it and the responses are beginning to slowly drift out into the wider world. For electronica, a scene which has always seemed a bit reticent to involve itself in anything other than a handful of laudable causes, commentary is often sheltered if it’s there at all. The signs, though, are that this is slowly changing.
Which brings us here to Trumpin’ Trax Vol 1 by DJ Trump and a dose of satirical, cynical house music. Whether or not you’ve been waiting for a collection of tunes by a mysterious producer and featuring a narcissistic, tiny handed, manchild is neither here nor there. We needed some sort of response. We’ve got one now, and the spotlight burns bright over that awful, weird, haircut.
But how is the music? Interestingly, although the record’s label, its imagery and symbolism, would have you believe that it leans heavily towards the tight avenues of Dance Mania’s pugnacious, stomping sound, the music actually casts its net wider, and that energized DM feel provides only a small part of the power. Largely, this is dark, prowling, scything UK acid house; bleached by a glorious tongue in cheek cynicism, and tensed with rave’s tempering effect on homegrown acid.
Work The Box Trump The Box and Trump Dat revel in the fierce snarl of Armando doused 303s and crumbling kicks. The former stretching the garrulous rhythms until they pound your brain into tiny pieces with its dirty wobble, the latter throws itself straight up, harnessing the dripping clip of the acid lines to marshal some choice Trump vox. Its chorus of ‘dirty Trump, nasty Trump, filthy Trump’ pumps it beyond a simple acid kicker, the vocals locking it down into proper mid period Dance Mania filthiness and elevating it into the sort of demented Friday night anthem you never knew you needed. God, I can think of some parties where this would lock the floor solid.
Elsewhere, the format is finely kinked. Trump That Body evokes French Kiss’ sophisticated simplicity, but adds in more 303s and a ruffle of bright, primary, colour which gives it the feel of a maniacal euro-house banger going off on a real tangent. It’s a simple trick, but one done with real aplomb. It’s also quite, quite, insane; the wide grin of the music pulling heavily at the happy cheesiness at its heart. Ghetto Trump rolls out with a wild pitching burst of jacking house and is happy enough to just kick around, piling on the beats.
The two best tracks here are the ones which reach out further from their beginnings. American Carnage, again with snippets of the lummox in full, fecund, throw down, starts out as more primo acid, but slowly becomes more ambitious, building in collapsing riffs alongside the 303s and flavouring the smoky atmosphere with nitrous tang of hard, early techno and classic acid house.
Feel My Trumpin Bass is even better, and expands the sordid trip further with an accent on a sort of lithe, poppy, swagger which powers the mayhem. The acid is held slightly in check, allowing the tune to open up and build on interlocked themes and frills, rounding out the sound and drawing in a sense of shiny nihilism. It’s fresh enough you could envision it on Top Of The Pops. A really sick and twisted ToTP maybe, but ToTp nevertheless.
What gives the music its strength is the way that, although its riddled with dark humour, it never plays for laughs. Yeah, the kookiness of the name and the theme might give lie to the idea this is some sort of bleak novelty record, but it really isn’t; the snap and snarl of the music, the seriousness that sits at its heart quickly forces that idea out of your head. And if it still contains a slight feel of surreal art terrorism, then that is surely something which is more indebted to a sort of heavy KLF style playfulness than anything less biting. A record for our times, created from discontent. Buy it now and play your resistance loud.