As I Ride With No Horse...
More than two years after No Head, Battant's second album is not, thank god, a record of static maturity: Battant have grown up, but their DIY sound is still that of « kids with special needs ». With an intimate and homemade writing (using a laptop and a creaking chair), the limit between lo-fi rock and electronic music is not being questioned. Neither is the link between a supposedly ‘rock' band, supposedly ‘electronic' producers (It's A Fine Line - Ivan Smagghe and Tim Paris) and a label which, for ten years now, has played at blurring the boundaries between all genres. Here is a stubborn and confident record, with a sparse and sharp production, on a militant label.
The only thing that really matters is the strong feeling that the music yields.

As I Ride With No Horse...
Where a keyboard (vanishing into the void), a flute (rising back from childhood), a piano (everlasting), the (crisp) chord of an (electric) guitar only interfere when necessary, only when they see fit. They will
not comply with the current idle logic dictating that all elements have to show up as a block, to fill a supposed space. The ‘block' here, is riddled with bullets - it is giving in. And through the slits and cracks (them being experienced, dreamt up or arranged), the emotion threads its way.

As I Ride With No Horse...
There are days when a record sounds like theatre, and Battant's doesn't shout. Sensuality over gesticulation, assertion over vituperation. Don't be surprised if, record over [short, restrained : 37 minutes], you feel you've been facing a real person.
Well, two actually : Chloe Raunet and Joel Dever (Battant lost a member since No Head : Tim Fairplay moved on to solo ventures). Battant will make you hear, if not see, a space growing in tension. Chloe's voice, clear and deep, rides at its own pace. The words snap, kick or not. Then Joel's guitar and keyboards build up defense walls around. Finally, scraping it all like sandpaper, It's A Fine Line's production corners the band into its essential, its maximum/minimal truth. Uppercuts and soft strokes take turns, The slim fish is served with its bones. The result is One, bare. This is a record of wounded ditties (Dolls & Chains, Farmer's Ode To Wife), British modern punk songs (Shutter), invitations to contort yourself (As I Ride With No Horse). Joel and Chloe are indeed riding an imaginary horse, decoding messages from lost airwaves (Clearcut, Pester). They are dusting a piano until they reach its insides, displaying its frailty (Scarlet). Harmonicas are sinking into dreams (Huble) then emerging in an oasis of tar, six minutes of a toxic layer (Fossil Fuel).

Bravely and proudly, we are led to a final romp, sharp as a cutthroat molted from a thousands of subgenres [twee synthabilly ? Lo-fi batbox twist ? Retro Swing Wave?].
A final, pretty facetiously, called Being One.

Precisely what no one will stop Battant to be.