display | more...
A sharp four piece band from Olympia, Washington and Portland, Oregon, the Intima consists of brothers Andrew Neerman (guitars, vocals) and Alex Neerman (drums), Themba Lewis (bass), and Nora Henshaw-Danielson (violin). Their sound is a manic mix of drone and report, a glorious fusion of angry voices that rise in a beautiful melodic choir. They are impeccably tight but to catch the rhythm of the guitar is nearly impossible. The violin rips out a throaty growl that seems to anticipate the arrival of a devilish Paganini, but when it arrives, it is not the work of any of the band members but the singing of some fifth instrument that lives in the spaces between the four...

The group has at the time of this writing a single CD, No Lullaby For Sleep, released on the Zum label. There are several 7"s and numerous compilation appearances slated for the future including a 7" on Post-present Medium and an appearance on the next Yo Yo Records compilation.

Recommended to fans of My Bloody Valentine, Unwound, Sonic Youth, The Velvet Underground, Gang of Four, Red Monkey, Mogwai, Blonde Redhead, and This Heat.

The Intima Made Me Cry

Last night I saw the Intima for the first time.

There's a point, when noise gets so loud that it becomes a felt physical presence, that it starts breaking apart, fragmenting and allowing ghosts to enter through the fissures. Phantom melodies and incidental harmonies waver in and out of one's perception like choirs descending from Heaven that one is just barely, and intermittently, clairvoyant enough to hear.

Are these ghost voices really there? Does it sound the same to everyone? Or are they created in our own heads, in reaction to the stress of the extreme volume we are subjecting ourselves to? The violation of sound so loud that you can't even hear it anymore, noise that cancels itself out. Like when you put your hand in water so hot your body gets confused as to whether it's feeling heat or ice-cold. Like when you feel so strongly about something you love that you couldn't say, you can't really say anything about it, the best you can do is blaspheme and deny, the best you can do is to write something about it and cross it out, blacken and obscure it with angry pen strokes saying no, that's not it at all, no that's not right. Like when you love something so much you want to destroy it to stop the small sharp pain that your intensity of feeling is focussing itself into.

If you were a soldier at war, crouching in a fox-hole with shrapnel raining down around you, and tanks churning and crushing and machine guns drilling and screams and shivering of teeth and desperate shouts and harried commands, and a mine explodes near you and something is wrong with your ears, and everything becomes washed-over with a fog of white noise, and it is clear to you that you are dying because you hear the choirs breaking through at moments, and the voices are dulcet and sweet, and the harmonies are many-layered and perfect and deep as an old old story -

maybe that would be a little like last night when I saw the Intima.

Log in or register to write something here or to contact authors.