Various – Hated Perversions
Taint. Grunt. Sick Seed. Spunk. Plenty to dislike in this assortment of hatefully crafted pervination. Take "Dedicated to Male Rape Group". I fucking hate this. Hell, it doesn't even sound like Taint, at least to start with. Stripped down, slow, labored breathing... inhale... exhale... inhale... fucked into fetal coma via piercing rips of staggered feedback, only ladling on heavier bowel-plugging layers toward the rather more tainted, utterly shredded, conclusion. I'll admit I haven't listened to too much Taint recently, but if anyone could suggest something along similar lines I'd, uh, most certainly not want to know. Others earmarked for particular loathing include the revolting toiletspherics of Sick Seed. This is just the worst, curdled drainbient flushed over repetitive rim-plonking and a condensed series of ill-considered vocals culminating with the ill-fitted invitation to "burn my balls", ill-propos of what could pass for massively overbilged out-take from Public Castration Is A Good Idea, as chucked down a deep and corroded pukehole to render the normally thunderous percussives a pathetic and tinny temperament- at which point we are hurled arsefirst into a second Seeding, retaining the bowel-flecked fumes but divested of plonkity rim-action and invested more securely in overbilge. Just when you think things couldn't sink any lower, out plop Bizarre Uproar, white-flecked strings of unutterably vicious hailings to the chief strained shrieked and spat onto the straight-ahead, if faintly metallic, roar of rough 'n cretinous din. The semi-autistic percussives of Dorchester Library are particularly worthy of contempt, like some arthritic drummer trying ineffectually to wap his way out through several turdloads worth of squealing TNB-grade scrapfilth, no doubt in the hope of incurring from one Mother Savage the administration of arse-thrashing so richly deserved. There are others on here equally unworthy of comment but I've about had it. Fetch the arse-thrashers. "Vogue Bambini" serves matter-of-fact Nicole 12 didactism overtop lurching, dictaphone-gone-to-shit, rhythm, successfully mimicking the sense of impending emesis creeping up my esophagus. Harsher on the ear than it appears and that's what you wanted, isn't it you filthy, fucking, little... Take it. TAKE IT! Fuck, I fucking hate your hate your stupid ff—fff—fffffucking fffuck fuck you fucking- ergh, fuck yergh, shit ohfuck ohshit fuckfuck. fuck... fapfapfapfapfap.... ... Erm. Ah. Just a sec there. Who is...? Right. Okay now. I'm fine, really. Grunt. Okay, Grunt. Adman sloganeering confessional. Steady, grinding, analog sputter. Drizzled gutterturds lathered upon the frazzled knobslob. Dreadful, absolutely dreadful. But what else is to be expected? The only surprise is the outgoing missive, slow-dredged reverberance piled unto nauseum, unsurprising cybertronic vocaloids surging through the billowed heaps, heavy on the drama and heavy in general, all courtesy Control. Yes, Control. And just what does Control have to say for himself? "Suffocate And Silent". Thought so.
