Scalp Elevator – Reenactment tape
Not what I expected from this superduo of Ryan Bloomer and Andrew Nolan. But there again, very much what may be expected of the project name. Scalp Elevator. The frontotemporal boggles. Pretty high expectations were to be had in any case, and these Reenactment easily exceeds. Huge and heavy metal bashing racket generously coated with filthed and grimy toiletspherics, two Southern Ontario nutbags going berserk deep down in the dank and echoing depths of abandoned lift shaft, junked scraps hurled about the somewhat flooded confines- with force enough to take someone's fucking head off. Against a distant rhythmic backing of metallic clunk, exceedingly harsh ripping textures quickly consume all breathing space, percussive assaults only occasionally to ker-scrunch through. Dense, harsh, raw. It's all there, overflowing toilet-smearics spewing the chamber with consistently crude harmonic overtones, if never quite to approach the fully overbilged levels of flatlinedtronics. More shitwell than shitwall if you will. Audience appreciation is enthusiastic and deserved. Flip over and any sense of consistent atmos is duly shredded. Well-muscled scrap-clank gives way to straight ahead headbanging metal-percussion to utterly mangled rip-fizzle to more slow, deliberate, steel-on-steel whanging to grey and grainy fuzzgrind to trainwreck loopsludge to... you name it. Not so much cut-up per se. Each textural movement stays around just long enough to leave its impression before lurching to the next indulgence, quite successfully negotiating the line between considered composition and out-and-out thrashing. Ultimately it is the assorted slops of the looped banging persuasion that anchor this ragged mess of conflicted perv-vision, and a particularly well-chosen sequence of said slops the duly proffered method to closing out the madness.
Constrain – Option To Hide tape
"Recorded & arranged summer 2013-2014," quite a span of time to put together these 20-minutes of tightly packed goodness. It shows. The Option is in the details. Razor-sharpened details, glittering shards, finely chiseled incisions. Rough concrete sources crowded out of view, brutally hacked and savaged, scrabbling frantically, and with rare success, to burst their securely fastened constraints. Plenty of goodies, then, hidden deep in the crevices of bullshit-free butt rupture, divided into seven parts. This thing moves. It hops around. Plunging down one rabbit-hole after another. Not to the point that the noisehead feels it is getting jerked around- maybe just a bit of well-lubed meat-strangling here and there. Always retaining a satisfyingly raw and gritty temperament which only aggravates the very physical pressures assaulting the 'holes. Though I will say there are moments when I want to slap this guy and scream, "Would you fucking slow down! I liked that bit, uh, back there. No, no. Uh, the one before that, I think. Or... erm, was it after? Wait. Who's this hot little number here. Whoo-baby. That's the shit. Oooh yeah.... yeah... fuck yeah... Hey, what? Where the fuck she go? Argh. Alright alright, fuck it, you don't have to fucking remind me. I can tolerate it. You've eroded my sense of bearing (THERE IS NOTHING LEFT!) Chucked me out the nest. But I'm good, really. Disillusioned, no question. Outcome? A burning necessity to just play the fucking tape. You fucking win, okay? FUCK!" In this sense the relative brevity of the tape works. Those delectable textures so sorely missed mere moments passed will be back in short order, just as the notable noshow of any weak moment ultimately leaves the bruised and battered soundholes perking up expectantly at the next violent surge. The only option apparent to play it again, sod.
