Farveblind get established with the industrial, techno-leaning Micro Pleasures

The image quickly became a widely circulated spectacle due to its irony; a pinnacle of commoditization and late-stage capitalism, sitting upon the final resting place of its most enduring critic. Perhaps also a quiet indicator of recession-era consumption, it acted almost as a punch line to a joke no one was aware was being set up. In doing so, it captures the absurdity on both sides. Farveblind’s new album operates within that same paradox, challenging a system that consumes everything, including dissent.

Named after the Danish word for colourblind, Farveblind flesh out their industrial, techno leanings as if sharpening a proverbial knife on their debut album, Micro Pleasures. “Oh I’ve quit smoking,” Andre stated confidently to his bandmates once, “But I want this little one thing. It’s not an addiction, it’s just a little pleasure. Just a micro pleasure.”

The album explores the claustrophobic routine and mundanity of day-to-day life, especially under the constraining logic of capitalism. Micro Pleasures draws attention to humble pleasures, coping mechanisms, and acts of quiet resistance in society that we cling to like life rafts.

Having already established themselves through incendiary live performances, Farveblind prove equally formidable in the studio. With mastering handled by Gustav Brunn (Viagra Boys, Yung Lean), the album achieves a superior sound that hones their already semi-established identity. Explosive and intricate, it skirts the edge of over-stimulation without ever tipping into fatigue, and situates the album in an urbane, almost brutalist landscape. I can only imagine what it’s going to sound like live.

Kicking off with the springy, off-kilter patterns of “Knocking Down Your Door” (feat Itcallsme i), the album eagerly establishes its kinetic energy and tonal intent. “Salary Man” follows with a sardonic take on America’s modern white-collar workaholic. The beat culminates at its apex around 3 minutes in, to a spinning breakdown that mirrors the exhaustion it describes, like a hamster wheel you can’t escape, tripping you up as you go, yet demanding you keep moving.

The album’s fixation on the habitudes of capitalism and their consequences spills into “Things” (feat. K. Flay): “I am feral with a virile need to buy things, to hoard things… to break things… to love things and revile things.” Driven by a bass-heavy electropunk pulse, K. Flay’s monotone deadpan delivery accentuates the inclinations inherent and itching under our skin; how reflexive and unthinking they have become. Who exactly are we feeding when we satiate these urges? Are we doing ourselves any favors, or are these micro pleasures keeping us stuck in the rat race? It’s the hamster wheel again, and we are feeding into the very thing that is eating us.

“These Days” leans further into revolving, techno-driven gestalts, with colorful beats parading before you in its undertone. It brings the album into a more brutalist atmosphere; concrete, subterranean, and semi-concealed.

Emmeline’s haunting vocals transcend the beats they’re superimposed on in “Natural Behavior”. The bass gallops at the chorus before the track lifts and spirals outward, spinning and chanting, with Emmeline impressing upon us at the end, “and you’re at the center of the universe and everything… arrives… at you.”

By the penultimate track, the album runs itself out into natural exhaustion, collapsing into the final ambient track, “All of the Atoms” (feat Django Django), which is a change of pace, but refreshingly cooling. It feels in deference to some of Low’s HEY WHAT album, and is transcendent as a track in the spaciousness and existentialism it evokes. Some tracks (“Micro Pleasures” and “Heartbreak Beats”) echo the alarming and undulating early 2000s beats of The Prodigy’s classic sound.

Excavating in nature, the groundbreaking beats shake loose anything calcified in the quantity of your core, and leave you harmoniously empty by its final track. Taken altogether, the record feels like a gradual peel away from the state they’re criticizing. By the end of it, you’ve been placed at a dizzying standstill at its drop off, and perhaps that is the last irony, the cherry on top of the cake, or the Labubu on Karl Marx’s grave.