Treriksrøset – Treriksröset (Hatband)
This one had me, like all good Trerik, digging through the unsightly piles for everything I've got from the project. And subsequently subjecting the 'holes to way more harsh than they ought rightly to deserve. It also occasioned the opportunity to consider, aside from the degree to which my earholes are fucked, just how far Treriksrøset has come. I'm pleased to report- not fucking very. What the project offers, and has reliably offered since Sexregler, is, well, The Goods: texture study par excellence. This characterization is only late in coming- actually it's one I thought up just now- and kind of shocks me in its propriety. Texture study. Par excellence. Perhaps the only thing to append to this designation are the descriptors Harsh and Raw. Do I hear a Dense? Dense, going once. Dense... takers.. anyone? Dense. Last chance now... Aww... to hell with you people.
Two live recordings, it seems, from 2013 and 2008. And so diametrically opposed in presentation as to invite peering at the cassette casing in alarm. More on that later.
Side grey, apparently recorded in that grand old city of Sthlm, is the proper Goods Deliverer. On first hit, the goods represent some of the most full-in-body Trerik to be had. If I didn't know better I'd think someone actually spent time trying to balance out the channels on a good and thorough master job. But that would be heresy, so let's pretend like we didn't read that. Uh, moving along now. Full-in-body. Thick and heavy. Real thick, real heavy. This is probably the heaviest I've heard since the full kill expounded on the 2006 split with Regim. The thick is probably more a consequence of the considered balancing out of elements previously mentioned. Maybe I'm just over-excited to have this in the 'holes but I'm almost ready to declare this THE BEST TRERIK EVER.
The tone is drear, grey, like the casing, almost darkened out industrial-grade grit-storm. The basses are gut-level, pulverizing, the texture an explosive cluster-bilged excess occasionally ripping through the tight, strangulating, grip. Three minutes in and the sound is stripped down, ground up, feeding back squealings lending unhinged flavors that serve to principally hinge attention. An unbuckling. A loosening up. Then the deft dropping of load. Meaty blurt stacks surging, rippling, plunging, thundering. Pace picking up, edges of high-end screechage breaking through dialog of thinned out, knife-edged, pierce, and hefty-butted, bilge-crusted, gristle. At several junctures I imagine we're at the grand rip-roaring, finale. Only to be double-fucked, again and again. Look mate, we're on the twelfth fucking minute and this better be it before I effing shit myself. The closing sequence is pure, dacks-be-crapping, fire.
Side black, obviously a live recording complete with audience contributions and applause, recorded in Jkpg. "The city was plundered and burned several times until it was fortified during the 16th and 17th centuries". Much later, noise superstars started descending on the place to lay ruin of a different order. But seriously, what the fuck is this? Where's the goddamn noise? It's almost like the responsible party is worried about people's earholes or something. Or perhaps the town is thought to have suffered enough? Ultra-minimal low-end bass rumbling, hefty enough to shake the venue on its foundations, verrry slowly acquiring grittier edges. Sufficiently quiet that a few fuckers in the audience can be heard announcing their approval (presumably at the demonstrated profound respect for history). (Er, apologies, audience. Just jealous not to have been there. Btw fuck you.) After about the third third-party contribution there is a marked upping of activity- which wouldn't be difficult- culminating in nice extended feedback whine.
Then the noise, as such. Hard to say whether acoustics or electronics are to be credited here. Certainly, there is texture, of the subdued and crumbling persuasion. At no time does it feel as though the purveyor is keen to pursue anything more than stomach-churning blubberbath. Rather, perhaps, an intent to suck the suckers down to gutter level, presumably to be followed by decisive plunging of the skull straight into the sewer. Fat falling percussive chunks reveberate against an upper ended whining, the full extent of harsh entirely feedback driven. The skull at this point merely dragged along the curbside, burnt-raw grit-filth attempting now to suffocate the room in fudge-tunneled oscillation, slowing to a crawl, to a drudge, to a muffly sloughered fluffer flub. RRRRrrrrrrrip. (Applause.)
