Liked this Encephalo so much I decided to rewrite most of the commentary. Apologies in advance.
Encephalophonic – Psychopathological Entertainment
Man, I've got this guy all wrong. With X, the previous Freak Animal abetted racket, I was sure the Bonini had turned over a new leaf. Or if not a new leaf, had begun to mature. Or if not to mature, was evincing new respect for more drawn out, deliberate, musings. Or... well, anyway, scratch all that. Talk about Regressed Progress. Here the unwholesome 'hole abuse picks up precisely where it left off x years ago with X predecessor Regressed Progress.
Rapid-fire staccato bursts hacked slapped left right center, epileptic shudder-loop, raw junk bassburst, tightly pinched pinprick skewer, cascading machine-choke avalanche, momentary pause of feedback whine. That's the first fifty-seven seconds. A merciful slow-down as whiney tone-drag meets twizzled knob slobber stop-pause. We are at 1:57 and large metal barrels roll onto the scene. The hammer comes out. Let's get physical. Ka-spunge! Physical. Ker-splooge! It's time to get- konkonkon-spunnnnng-nnng-nnng. Not so much the rapid fire more the purely violent, petite flecks of echo to dramatize the beating meted out on poor defenseless piles of junk, reverb extensions played into harsher static mass. At 3:38 it is berzerker mode, the hammering growing frantic, ripped junk chunks flying dangerously past the ear before the inevitable shudder-loop to close things out.
The whole album does not much deviate from this model, the only clear consistency the studied avoidance of consistency. Constant schizo-frenetic movement, the pace alternately herked and jerked from lightning fast to more leisurely strolls through metal THWACK chambers, the rare occasion to admire the filthy work as sure to be violently choked off and ripped to shreds. This is most evident in the second track, which could almost be mistaken for meticulous metal junk study smashed to tiny, twitching bits. Here the source materials are more up-close and personal, but every attempt to concentrate is broken by borderline nutso packed to the gills with unsolved traumas, sent careening out of control. Audiophonically speaking, that is.
Track the third leads off with pretty brutal docu-perv interview clip and then the more purely electronic molestation to kick in. Episodic bursts of sharp and pointed incision, coming back again and again, as though to condemn the listener to forever relive the trauma, throwing everything into the mix and really upping the harsh flavors through the most severe of screechy shriek-frequencies. Those are some sick sadofantasies there, Bonini-san.
Another track another brutally trashed junk study, but now a more "live" sense of space, abrupt and uneven cuts as ready to favor squealing twizzle-action as to vomit out physical fits of ker-splungeing violence. On occasion, the surgeon seems dissatisfied with his scalpel work, trading in precision for haphazard, snarled, handsaw rip, pliers furiously pulling at frayed edges, sound bits ground down to crumpled pulp of near non-fidelity. That'll learn ya.
If "Hatred For The Human Body" is some kinda Dead Body Love tribute I don't hear it. What I do hear is exceedingly well put together clusterfuck frenzy of raw and raging hyperspasmation. Hefty, burly, bass-burbles bulging with perverse exuberance, sweet tease-y ear-bleedings repeatedly blasted with overweight freight trains of very dense full-force full metal racket. The surgeon likes it so much he even gentrifies the close of proceedings with sadistic porn clip, tortured shrieks of pain echoed with equally tortured surge of total flip-out electro slather.
A brief bit of respite as a full-minute's oscillation precipitates jerk-savvy dialog of ruptured bass-burble and wrinkled, roughly-scraped, distorto-bash. 100mg of seroquel, much of it seemingly administered "live" and on the fly, still the eye for detail as astute as ever, the massed piles of junkmetals ever ready for smash-happy indulgences, every corner of the channel pan engaged.
Getting close to the end here and more carefully spaced junk chamber deliberation. For the first minute or so. Soon enough the encephalo urges prove overpowering, the seroquel has obviously run out, and the tight-packed scrunchings of curdled, jerk-necked, epilepsy set the stage for the title track and main event.
"Psychopathological Entertainment" is, simply, a pure and furious rager of pure scorching encephalo FIRE. I had some listening notes somewhere I thought might better illuminate. Let's see now-
"Psycho-spasty wack-a-jack-thwacky, mess-alophonic chugga chugger blung, cheeks prised open,
slammed home screeching, Ruptured be thy bung"
Well, perhaps not. What to say... the razors are just that extra shave sharper, the peaks just that extra prod pricklier, the hyperspasmations just that extra splerk spasmated. Occasional peeps of daylight squeak in here and there, only to emphasize the hefty physical force of bass-loaded turd-burgling crunchpunchers slamming on through. Call it the Ultimate Masobonini. Precision crafted incisions taken to a wide array of raw, junked, metallic, acoustic, crunch pinch n chisel, all of it on point, meticulously tweaked for maximal damage- to head, heart, and holes... hatred of the human body never felt so goood. Liner notes say the album on whole was a good year in the making, a year that apparently did the good Bonini's head in, as commemorated in opener "Crazy". But it wouldn't surprise me if most of that year went into this one track. The attention to precision and detail is to be commended, as is the profusion of bass-loaded turd-burgling crunchpunchers slamming on through. Perfect and perfectly brutal.
So in sum, get thee some. Crazed n deranged profusion of confusion, easily the most surgically crafted Bonini to date. Unlike the previous missives, earlier mentioned, space is not wasted with apparent attempt to draw the strands together, such that they cohere into semi-narrative whole. A few strategically placed docu-cum-porn clips, but serving more as texture than wapping the listener over the head with theme. Or if there is to be theme, it is thoroughly sound-driven. HARSH driven. Earhole abuse driven. You say psychopathological entertainment I say mydriasis is on fire. Time to break out the- CUM ALERT! The- SOUNDS FOR BUTTPHONE! The- PISS ANGE... Look, would you mind? Some of us are trying to write stuff. Jeez. The seroquel. Break it out, now, the seroquel. 100mg ought to do the trick. Regardless of the grip on scalpel, or sanity, the return to puritannical harshhead as ventured in Regressed days of yore is always welcome. As is the profusion of bass-loaded turd-burgling crunchpunchers slamming on through.
