Creedle

When The Wind Blows (Headhunter)
by Nik Rainey

Once again, Creedle prove themselves to be one of the mysterious algebraic variables of indie rock, the ever-changing x factor in a sea of equatic simplicity. Plug in your definitions and it stalwartly refuses to add up – is it one big conceptual joke that they didn’t let you in on? Is it designed to fool some balding jazzbo into thinking it was some Sunday morning FM radio stiff-necked cold fusion Berklee-via-Berkeley wank? Is it the next wave of Zappacious Crimson-tidal art rock rushing in to suck away the jetsam left behind by the last aborted corporate shark attack? Anti-Semitic klezmer served on the bed of broken glass from the marriage of inconvenience between smart-ass idiocy and thick-headed cleverness? A bossa nova carcinoma that you can’t resist picking at no matter how discolored it Getz? Or is it exactly as it appears, even though you can’t get a bead on it because it’s moving so fast and its features keep changing? Whatever it is, When The Wind Blows is exhilarating confusion, a furrowed-brow mélange of sauces and spices that startle the palate and stick to the roof of your mouth, altering the flavor of everything else you sample thereafter. It’s a mystery wrapped in a puzzle inside an enigma covered by an ambiguity draped over an uncertainty. And damn, is it tasty.