Aaron Dilloway / Hum of the Druid / Mike Shiflet / Manplug – Texture (Lake Shark HN #1)
Highly articulate statement of intent from Lake Shark Harsh Noise, circa 2008. "Fuck the militant walls, the peeps wants textures." Call up the big guns, cock the hammer, hammer the cock. CRUNCH. Four fully-flavored forays into a fathomless fecal fantasia, murky layers of textured, shredded, gristle. Senior Dilloway's "Nicaraguan Bull" charges full-tilt up a convulsive spray of whitewater turbulence, flipping and jumping from one aerated current to the next. Halfway upstream and the brute funnels into some well saturated grit to net a kind of hollowed-out militancy, but this is soon expunged in favor of whiter, flightier, climes. Hard to top but the Druid comes out swinging- pure, testosterone-fueled, overload, abruptly exhaling onto what I take for legit out-take from the Abisko s/t. Acoustic scrap-elements are discernible, if mostly buried under full weight of Druidic cock in full thrust. TAKE IT! I'll demure for the moment to confess that I picked up this comp for the Druid, very much hoping to get what is here got. Fucking TAKE IT! Significantly less militant than the Druid entry on A Tribute To Dead Body Love (see below), but also, I'd aver, rather less textured than the Abisko s/t - at least, at the surface. A single overbludgeoned layer holds a relatively static position, cruelly smothering the badly abused stutters of scrape n scrap, denying any plea for daylight. If I may commit a heresy, I wouldn't call this particularly harsh on the earhole; on the speakers, maybe, but, as with the Abisko s/t, I couldn't imagine "Final Experience With Libido" doing any lasting damage to the ability to hear. FUCKING TAKE IT, BITCH! No, the damage is clearly to be reserved for the sanity, warped and ruined in the cretinous mancave. As the badly distorted field of perception spelunks into darkened depths... a shitty beauty beckons: gently shifting, crumpled and crumbling textures, rough ground flavors, sediments, settling on the palate, attention drawn to deeply sunk clank, grate, drag n clunk. A short count past the 7-minute mark and the overbludgeon threatens a seismic shift or three- but this is soon contained, strangled, ground down to pulp. Of respite, there will be no such pleasure from Mr Shiflet. Long ass crackle-study, grey funneled air pressures seeping through badly corroded drainage duct. Tiny glass granules forced through clasping, rusted out, sphincters, deviations seldom to emerge and often to be clamped down, hard. Three quarters of the way through, a slight roughening up of proceedings, shattered tatters rippling with barest hint of frustrated aggression- but the clamp is tightened in short order, the fourteen minutes and thirty nine seconds of fame are up. Manplug, another of the 666 shades of Richard Ramirez, deliver surprisingly "traditional" pedal-driven harsh, a huge and blubbering mass of unsubtle butt-smother. Clouds of heaving density mushroom quickly, fleshing out the field with warm, wet, flights of flatus. Continuous expansion and contraction, slamming ass-first into full-on militant texture before ripping open with all the grace and patience of greased pigporker on crack. Squeeeeeeal! One moment in a thunderous echo chamber, the next face-down in a steaming turdhole. At the tenth minute a final, wall-like push through utterly unyielding layers of clenched, burnt raw, bunghole, a few last-second rips and tears in fabric a final, desperate, soon-answered, plea for extinction.
Various – Cutting Into The Torso Of The Mountain - A Tribute To Dead Body Love (Militant Walls #7)
Horrors Of The Human Body. Tumors. Human Waste. Cancer Baby. Life? "Life is a hideous thing..." If Militant Walls chose to announce to the world their highly specialized species of mania with the truly massive Nitro Dragsters - A Tribute To OVMN And The Incapacitants (Militant Walls #1), it would only be a matter of time before perversion solidified by Cutting Into the Torso Of The Motherfucking Mountain, an oddly Lovecraftian title, perhaps fittingly consistent, if indirectly, with DBL worship long given over to the grim tidings of the esteemed HP. Only four perverts this time around, though two- The Rita and Mania- make a reappearance, and a third, Werewolf Jerusalem,was previously repped, solo, by Mr Richard Ramirez. That leaves Hum of the Druid, the principle attraction in my case following, in reverse chronology, his appearance on the Texture comp (Lake Shark HN #1, above commented). Oddly Lovecraftian, oddly conceptual, kicking off with Werewolf Jerusalem and following with three tracks that feature Werewolf Jerusalem source material. Tribute within tribute- A Tribute To Dead Body Jerusalem? WJ do what they do best: eighteen minutes of pure pedal-driven rumble-bludger, staying the course, firm and steady, never wavering, never blinking, eye-watering commitment to unfettered overbilge. Well, almost. The field is fairly wide, made wider still by barest taint of breathy rim-action, breathing space seeping around the edges. Five minutes of this shit and then, suddenly- lurch to extended, blistered, seething, severity. Nothing like piercing, this severity, more kind of never-to-relent, severely pitched, conch-shell ringing. Music to the bleeding earholes, donchyerknow. The way cleared for The Rita, out comes the chainsaw and due commencement of "Line-Cutting Part 1". Fucking rrrrrriiiiiippppppp! Now this, this is what I call tribute to Dead Body Fucking Love. I am moved to exhume DBL's Repugnance, and to dust off a few flakey comments once submitted by yours soddly: "Sounds of dry shredding... accompany slow, grinding burn and non-stop sobbing 'n sniffling". Smoldering lines rrrriiiipppp through the speakers, in tightly concentrated, strangulated, bursts, breathing space subsumed under the unforgiving tide. Line-cutting, hell. We're talking total devastation, militant as fuck, full-on scorched earth policy, not a goddamn tree in sight. So, to be sure, the expected midrange distortions are there to constitute the Noise Wall, but the pressures at work push this, firmly, into the Harsh. At every moment sheer whitened shredding threatens to burst through (the wall), but that of course can never happen, the continuous punishing assault bears down, forcing the harshhead through mountains of fecal petrification. So to the nominal main attraction, "Lens On Necrosis". As with Druid's Texture submission, the easy reference is the Abisko s/t – if, perhaps, a tad more militant. Straight ahead single-layer distortion overload with almost no discernible depth... for the first few seconds. Slowly a kind of whispered ambient undertow flows out from the grainy, rumpled, sheets, surface elements start to shift and tremble, bits of acoustic thunk 'n thud scrabble about the increasingly arid field. Sinking drainage elements strain the 'holes for studious indulgence, the carefully laid foundation growing increasingly porous, the lens zooming into fissures and cracks ever so gently pulled and prized from their deteriorating host, ruptured walls shivering, giving way, disgorged pieces splintering, crumbling, degraded unto filth. At later stages, at key intervals, overloaded textures fall almost completely to pieces, gaping spaces quickly patched over with due militance- but not before a few muted cries of "Aha!" escape the orifice. Brutal this is not, or certainly not the point, apropos of the academic implications of the title, intense focus and multiple playback both to be very well rewarded. After three epic-length excursions, a five-minute "fuck you" from Mania. "Desperate Savagery" is exactly that. (Comparatively) frantic, feedback-flecked, upping of the harsh ante. Lots of movement here, high-pressured low-end surges coming in waves of considered pelvic pulverization, desperate voices shrieking under the tightly regulated brutalities, a first hint at properly earhole-piercing savagery. Doubled-up feedback screech starts to dominate, the tone as raw and filth-fucked as ever. The vocalizations are starting to get a bit out of sorts, perhaps now to scream, in desperation, "Will someone please please PLEASE PUT ME OUT OF MY FUCKING MISERY?" Just you wait, there chappie, for now it is the bungholes that are to be savaged, a good dose of well-rounded sphinct-bludgering to close out the scene. Squeal boy! Screech. Surge. Short but certainly to the fucking point.
edit
think i got all the names/titles right this time. will someone please please please (etc)
