Shedding was Connor Bell, at least that’s the way it had been for the better part of a decade. That was until Bell made a definitive move away from the hermetically sealed confines of his sample-collage/electro-acoustic soundscapes back towards more extroverted forms of expression. For these ends he conscripted Louisville underground rock stalwarts Tim Furnish and Joey Yates, themselves having emanated from the arcane climes of combos like Crain, Parlour, and Sapat.
Shedding has become a band, leaving behind its intangible chrysalis to emerge a full-blooded, flesh and bone concern. They trade in the angularity that blossomed in the late seventies and came to fruition in the mid-nineties. They aspire to the Motorik pulse that drove Teutonic progressive, but feel just as comfortable trolling around in the cannabis-infused primordial drone-grooves espoused by some adherents of the Canterbury school of lysergically enhanced musical experimentation.
Shedding evokes contrasting textures and imagery. Like some of their spiritual brethren from Sheffield, they conjure visions of concrete structures and the vast onslaught of metallic scaffolding it takes to erect them. Unlike their British soul brothers, Shedding will impart an occasional pastoral flourish as if to suggest that some form of untrammeled nature might still stand beyond the urbanized grey perimeter.
Bell’s background as a historian has led him to repeatedly compare modern cultures to those of bygone eras. Through that lens it can seem as though not much has changed. It is possible that Shedding exists to present a version of what the future might hold. Whether this is an optimistic forecast or otherwise is difficult to pinpoint. Perhaps the ambiguities are too nuanced and better left up to the individual beholder to decide.
Let us not forget, after all, that Shedding is a process of sloughing off. A chance anew to burn off old impurities, and thereby to purify the words’ works of statically-inclined tribal minds.