Have you ever fallen into a situation where you felt you truly didn’t belong? Most everyone has. You walk into the weird part of a bookstore or stumble into a strange new restaurant, and then a feeling washes over you—like maybe you should turn around and run away as far and as fast as you can.
Have you ever fallen into a situation where you felt you truly didn’t belong? Most everyone has. You walk into the weird part of a bookstore or stumble into a strange new restaurant, and then a feeling washes over you—like maybe you should turn around and run away as far and as fast as you can.
If you haven’t experienced this, don’t worry—Trust has captured that feeling on tape, and that feeling is called TRST.
Hailing from what can be described as the weird part of Canada, Trust is a two-piece synth-pop duo, which seems relatively rare in this day of synth-pop revival. Most bands of this kind have three or more members, and the lack of a third member to pull his or her own weight is reflected on the 11 tracks that make up TRST.
Most of the record sounds like a third member recorded parts of it, but that the master tape containing them got lost in post. What TRST offers up, then, is a slimmed-down version of synth-pop—a stripped, cold steppe of electronics that serves as an exercise in digital malaise.
It’s easy to peg Trust as Depeche Mode with Herman Munster on the mic, and I’d say that’s a pretty accurate description (if that could be spoken without a hint of disparagement). In fact, it’s this vocal delivery, the brutally honest, Quaalude-induced drawl of lead vocalist Robert Alfons, that is a huge part of what makes the record good. But it isn’t the only thing.
For starters, the production is airtight, and I mean grade-A perfect. You’d be hard pressed to find crisper, fuller electronic drums in any other record, period, and these full pulses come courtesy of Trust’s other member, Maya Postepski. Synthesizer work is handled by both members and sounds exceedingly crisp.
Meanwhile, Alfons’ vocals will call to mind such oft-imitated crooners like Joy Division’s Ian Curtis, Interpol’s Paul Banks and at times, Nick Cave. And though she is not credited, Postepski fills in on vocals from time to time.
Admittedly, the first track, “Shoom,” sounds like a particularly evil cut of synth that should be the pacesetter. And in a way, it is: “Shoom” features every trick Trust can muster from its limited personnel—Alfons and Postepski trade off on vocal duties, the synth-lines are at their most pronounced and melodic, and the track builds tension until you feel like you may explode.
Right when you feel like you can’t take it anymore, the track does just that; it erupts into a quivering hunk of soulful angelic pads. Really, it’s the standard to which album openers should be held.
A changeup occurs shortly thereafter, and I don’t know why every synth-pop record is like this, but it is. Track two, in TRST’s case, “Dressed for Space,” seems like the soundtrack to a nice day in the park by comparison. The tempo steps up, and the focus is no longer on the synths. Instead, it is awkwardly foisted onto the lead singer.
If a trope exists on synth-pop revival records, this is it—powerfully soul-cleaving unrestrained gloom at the onset and cheerful vocal driven bubblegum immediately thereafter. It is maddening when lesser groups utilize this, and after the impeccable opener, the listener should expect more from Trust. Sadly, “Dressed for Space” follows up the barely-contained blast of “Shoom” with a 4-year-old saying “bang.”
Fortunately, the rest of the record isn’t anywhere near as sinusoidal, though some transitions share a similar amplitude. “This Ready Flesh” is easily the worst track on the disc. It doesn’t know if it wants to be a goofy, atonal house track or a saturnine dance cut, so it picks an awkward, arbitrary halfway point.
There are clear skies ahead, though, as the track immediately following it, “F.T.F,” is the strongest effort on the entire record. The whole of the track is shrouded in a thick black fog, but the bass line in the song is absolutely incredible. Postepski handles the primary vocal duties for the song, which lures the listener in with a sweet pop sensibility before pulling back the curtain to reveal a funk-laced evil vortex from which there is no escape.
TRST reaches its sepulchral zenith on the track “The Last Dregs.” Apart from Alfons’ Munstering, the entire thing sounds like a submarine’s sonar audio track, where the drums bathe in a crater-sized reverb tank.
As the record continues, you’ll be hearing a band that simply wasn’t ready for a full-length album. Some acts are better suited to EPs, of which Trust has released three prior to TRST. After “F.T.F,” the record goes downhill fast, straight into the fitting “Sulk,” the aptly named closer of this record. Sadly enough, by the time “Sulk” finishes, you’re glad it’s over.
Upon hearing “F.T.F,” you’ll suddenly wish that you heard much more Lily Munster than Herman—and the dismal closing effort certainly doesn’t help. Gone is the explosiveness of “Shoom,” the eerie, decrepit electronic dirges of “The Last Dregs,” the hauntingly melodic vibraphones of “Candy Walls.”
As a series of singles, the album holds up very well, but the filler is easily spotted and should have been avoided altogether. If TRST was a “greatest hits” compilation and not a full work of art meant to be enjoyed in sequence, it would hold up better. The good tracks capture that feeling of discomfort, of instinctual retreat quite well.
If the record was missing “Dressed for Space,” “This Ready Flesh,” “Chrissy E,” most of “Bulbform,” and all but the last 20 seconds of “Sulk,” TRST would sound like the darkest synth-pop vinyl in your creepy uncle’s collection, and you would feel like you don’t have permission to listen to it. But as it stands, it’s a record your uncle would fully permit you to borrow because he wouldn’t feel too gutted if you broke or lost it.
