A.R. Kane – 69 (1988) – Review

Release Date: July 1988

Label: Rough Trade Records

Length: 54:26

You probably won’t recognize the name A.R. Kane unless you’ve spent time digging into late-‘80s British experimental pop. But if you listen to 69, you’ll start noticing threads that show up years later—traces of sound that artists like Seefeel, My Bloody Valentine, Massive Attack, and even Radiohead played with in different ways. If you want to hear what dream pop could sound like when it melts into dub, ambient, and feedback, this is a strong place to start.

A.R. Kane was a duo—Alex Ayuli and Rudy Tambala—two Black musicians from East London who didn’t fit the scene they were born into. Instead of chasing what other indie bands were doing at the time, they chased reverb, delay, and rhythm. They didn’t try to sound like The Smiths or The Cure. They were more interested in Lee “Scratch” Perry, Miles Davis, and Can. And you can hear that all over 69.

Let’s break down why this album still matters, track by track, vibe by vibe.

“Crazy Blue”

The opener floats more than it plays. It doesn’t move with urgency. The guitar sounds like it’s played underwater. Ayuli’s vocals drift in and out of focus. You’ll probably feel like you’ve heard this approach before—especially if you’ve spent time with Cocteau Twins or Slowdive. But 69 came out in 1988, a year before Loveless sessions even began.

Instead of relying on walls of guitar, A.R. Kane splits the difference between guitar and atmosphere. The drums feel like dub but stripped of its Jamaican swagger. The tension is in what’s not there. No heavy choruses. No climaxes. Just drift.

“Suicide Kiss”

You either sit with this track or skip it. At over six minutes, it’s not built for the impatient. Tambala layers noise over simple guitar patterns. Vocals get smothered under effects. At times, it sounds like the track might fall apart, but it doesn’t. It just keeps looping, forcing you to focus on texture rather than melody.

If you’re someone who enjoys ambient or drone, this one hits. But if you expect pop hooks or sharp verses, it’s probably not for you. The song feels like a test: How much abstraction can you take before you check out?

“Spermwhale Trip Over”

Here’s where things really open up. The track title’s strange, but the sound is even stranger. It’s built around dub basslines and looping guitars that never resolve. You could argue this is where post-rock begins, years before it had a name.

Would you rather listen to a perfect song, or a song that sounds like a dream you half-remember the next morning? That’s the real question A.R. Kane seems to ask.

Production Approach

They didn’t record this album in a state-of-the-art studio. Much of 69 sounds like it was made in an apartment with cheap gear. That works in its favor. It doesn’t chase perfection. Instead, the imperfections—tape hiss, uneven levels, vocals buried too deep—give it texture.

Compare that to modern albums that aim for clarity. 69 values atmosphere over fidelity. If you want every note to ring out clean and crisp, this album might frustrate you. But if you prefer records that feel haunted, this one’s worth revisiting.

Race and Visibility

Ask yourself this: why didn’t A.R. Kane get the credit they deserved when they dropped this? Why don’t more people namecheck them? Two Black musicians making strange, ambient pop in 1988 didn’t fit the music press narrative. They weren’t easy to market. They didn’t do typical rock interviews. They didn’t have an aesthetic that the press could grab onto.

It’s not hard to draw a straight line from that to the silence around their impact. When shoegaze became a genre years later, the bands that got attention didn’t look like them.

Influence Without Attribution

You can hear A.R. Kane’s influence all over later genres: shoegaze, trip-hop, post-rock. But they rarely get mentioned. If you’ve ever listened to Bark Psychosis, Disco Inferno, or Boards of Canada, you’re hearing echoes of this album.

That lack of recognition can make 69 feel like a secret—something you find, then share with someone who actually listens. The album has depth. You won’t get it all on the first pass. You probably won’t get it all on the fifth.

So the question becomes—how many listens do you give an album before it becomes part of your life?

Final Tracks and Closing Thoughts (Without Calling Them That)

By the time “And I Say” and “Baby Milk Snatcher” roll in, you’re either locked into the album or you’re done. These are some of the most abstract moments on the record. No clear structure. No sense of direction. Just layers of sound interacting like waves crashing into each other.

If you play this in the background while you do something else, you’ll miss most of it. But if you put on headphones, sit still, and really listen, you’ll notice details that didn’t register the first time.

A.R. Kane wasn’t trying to make a commercial album. 69 feels like an experiment that somehow got released. And that makes it more important—not less.

You have to ask yourself: Do you want music that tries to please, or music that dares to disappear before you catch it?

This record does the second thing. Better than most.