MNEM - Hegonon
I wanted to write a proper commentary, but it seems my record player is on the on the fritz on the fritz on the fri- Burnt out, decrepit, dragging, burble-tronics. Is that the record player? You say power electronics I say unplug the piece of shit. If and when I get the damn thing working I might even recognize a mission statement in play- if unplug the piece of shit weren't statement enough! But okay, here's the statement. It comes rather late to the party, or rather the morning after, in the sullen, funereal wake of massed ass-ripping noise. Post ass-rip. There's your genre tag. Badly abused speakers smoked to shizzled fidelity, earholes blown out and incompatible with the vicinity- a muffled tinnitus-tinged haze of corroded memory and wall-to-wall vomit obscuring the distant door-pummeling of vengeful neighbors. At least I'll assume those are vengeful neighbors, could just be the incessant pounding in my skull. Everything sounds, determinedly, like shit, as though force fed along frayed wires of decayed machinery on the fritz on the fritz on the fri-
My first impression was of material confined entirely to the electronic. See for reference the first cut on the Hypostatic Ground 7inch. Acoustic sources, if there were any, would have had their edges worn away, leaving rubbished acousmics to fizzle through char-burnt static fields, stumbling over slow-cycling clumps of crumbling buzzzzkill. It would be hard in any case to hide in the thinly layered proceedings, continuously mutating through despondent dialog of scuff, drag, and whine. Limp, flaccid elec-shlongics. If your blood is pumping you must be doing it wrong. But the pacing suits the material, affording plenty of opportunity to explore the cratered terrain as it half rises and half falls, sinking up to the schnozzer in an atmosphere of implacable drab. Bumbling bees drunk on organosulphate wheeze lazily about in woozy half-circles, bumping into the side of the nest, kipping over backwards, legs swimming in the air, can't be fucked to report back let alone swarm. Buzzing drizzling sputtering smothering. Choked murmur, smudged bummer. The sound of playing dead. Over and over again. Wound up, loose, spooling out over warped warbling tapeheads in unreliable fits, blurts, farts. Repetitive consignment of terminal looped minimalism. Dirge-burgled butt huff. Post ass-rip.
Side B and a not inconsiderable effort to get it up. First, slow stuttered bi-planes lumber over dead calm pools of humdrum muttering stasis, taxiing through arid hangars as bits of machinery clunk off with each irregular jolt. Motors peter out, pings and plonks left faintly echoing in dingy space, scene set for the fat one. Rising out the decrepitude, a surge of inverted air-raid sirens initiates base-layered bevy of hard driven loop action. Midrange singe-tronics fill the field, taste of charburnt psychedelia, stench of ozone, almost exciting a good half mast's worth of determined downward thrust. Just as words like "heavy" and "dense" start to flesh out perspective, a decisive pulling of the plug. Yes, well... best not to overdo it I suppose. Then it gets rough. Dry, rasping scrape, white-flecked in roughened raw abrasion, no lube, almost explosive rupturing of shredded distortion, wayward needle dragging its way across 12-grit sandpaper itself subject to a feverish tearing into strips. Inevitably, distortions give way muzzled, growling, dirge-burgle, irate cycles of canine bleat-whine feed back and out, and rank and wrinkled miserables get dragged, worn and whimpering, to their sorry end.
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marginally de-tarded
