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Albums by Mental Overdrive

2009-07-10 by Nathan Dunne Jr.

The Godlike Genius of Per Martinsen

A Disco very Unlike any other

When I first was introduced to Per Martinsen - aka Mental Overdrive - by Tied Revolverman via Bugge Wesseltoft, my initial impression was a strange mixture of unfathomable awe and the kind of WTF reaction you have when you discover the holiday cottage you've rented isn't the glorious villa overlooking white sands that you saw in the brochure, but a brokendown shack whose previous occupant had obviously been some kind of deranged monk whose vow of asceticism had long since collapsed in favour of creating Jackson Pollock imitations from bodily fluids on the walls, tables, chairs ... First impressions last, they say. Not true. Here was a man who could claim, pokerfaced, to be the Godfather of Norwegian Techno, the Grand Uncle of Twisted Disco, the Second Cousin of Black Metal Darkcore, Sibling of Scandinavian Progressive Rock ('72-'75), Nephew of Nordic Folk and Husband of Scando Pop. New Wave was his teenage Mistress and Norwegian Cosmic Disco was his illegitimate Son. By means of various acts of wilful dissemination he donated audiosperm to the cloning projects that produced Bjorn Torske, Royksopp, Lindstrom and Prins Thomas. Diskjokke was the result of a quickie with the maid at the House that he built with his bare hands. Yes. All this he could say if he so desired. And say it with a pokerface that Lady Gaga would find completely inscrutable. And now, as he walks down the Boulevard of Broken Beats he continues to spread his genes: Norsebeat; Snowcore; Drum&Ice; Jambient Prog; Tree-step; Fishco ... all are his Children. His only denial of paternity is in relation to DJ Strangefruit - but DNA testing is happening right now as I write this text.

So, thus exposed to both his theoretical and practical emanations and irreducible aura, my initial impression was replaced by one of complete admiration and unshakeable fealty. And I realised that my more negative assertions were based on his boots which, as it turns out, he had been forced to wear when his own were stolen by a UK House Music Duo who shall go unnamed, as their name would be a taint on this text.

Mental Overdrive, as an entity, is psionic, xenomorphic, unfathomable. Quirks of genre sit alongside monoliths of impossibly danceable beatmongering. Melodic crossbreeding and genetic manipulation produce chimeras capable of producing virulent pro-joy infections. Contra-temporal trendvomit is merrily scooped up and rethrown at cybernetic fishcotheque trawlers in environmental protests of funk and punkoid technotubthumpery. Quasiambient icescaping gives gardens of unearthly delights and infraorgasmic glitchsmithery, liberally planted with discoblooms, electroflowers and heartbeat altering virtual glowsticks of phuture-illuminating grandeur. None of which is done any justice by this text.

So untext yourself, re-sex yourself, and becomes versed in the blowing of the musical cornucopia of Mental Overdrive. Or else don't, and remain a one-cell musical organism forever. It's your call, space cadet.

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