Written by
After collaborations with dubstep pioneer the Bug and New York metal band the Body, Dis Fig (Felicia Chen) seems to have nearly perfected the combination of deep, bass-driven immersion and blistering, soul-shaking noise. Since her 2019 debut, PURGE, which drew from her experiences in the New York and Berlin rave and punk scenes, Chen has been moving toward ever-sharper contrasts between caustic drones and close-mic’d croons. Her new album, What to Make of These Mortal Hands, builds on this trajectory, building from some of her quietest moments into apocalyptic clamor. Chen’s softest whispers seem to belie a propulsive conviction; when she pushes her voice to the limit, it cracks to reveal a tender interior.
PURGE also featured industrial clatter punctuated by moments of rest, but this time Chen crafts intimate atmospheres with acoustic instruments and vocals that sound like they might disintegrate in the slightest breeze. Will Ballantyne’s pensive guitar sketches out a descending melody in “A Hundred Hands” as Chen utters cryptic lines: “Resting the folds upon her faith/Betting the cradle on a crooked mouth, muscled rage.” Soft, murky piano chords linger amid the patter of falling rain on “Mystic One,” and Chen’s whispered vocals evoke the deceptive strength of singers like FKA twigs. On “Ginko’s Way,” Chen dips into her origins as a youth choir singer, relying on solemn harmonies, cathedralesque reverb, and the cawing of crows to immerse the listener in a desolate place of sanctuary.
No score yet, be the first to add.
It’s rare for these songs to linger in a single texture, timbre, or affect; many begin patiently and grow to a noisy climax. On the title track Chen reaches for the psaltery (a kind of zither without frets), creating a meandering, medieval atmosphere whose ubiquitous electronic background buzz foreshadows the biting screams and blistering bass to come. “Vorago” follows, with Diana Miron’s strings cutting in and out amid Chen’s dark whispers: “My lungs are taken over/And every pore of my body cries out in a thick black oil.” At its peak, the track is crunchier and more punishing than anything she’s put out before.
Chen has become even more adept at manipulating her voice, both in delivery and in the mix. “I’ll See You in the Burning Sun” pushes her to the brink, and desperation arcs from her shrieks like plasma filaments from a Tesla coil. At times, she EQs and distorts her voice so that it becomes indistinguishable from synthesized noise, like at the end of “Psaltery.” At times jutting outward and at others gliding along the grain of electronic texture, Chen’s voice tracks the form of the instrumentals like a sculptor working in relief.
Studied moments of resonance display Chen’s growing mastery of her disparate sound palette. There’s a moment about a minute into “The Snake You Built” when a shimmering LFO synth brushes against Miron’s uneasy vibrato that sends chills down my spine. Composers have historically used tonal harmony to convey tension and release, but where Chen shines is how she combines and layers non-tonal elements—timbre, distortion, even negative space—to generate a cinematic soundscape at once fluid and disjoint. It’s these transitional moments that serve as the glue between the cathartic excess and tender expressions of hope on this record, as if to say: There’s a whole world between our skinny fists and heaven.
