PLAYLIST with COMMENTS/REVIEWS

[Bloated Slutbag]

Encephalophonic – Surgical Mods
The first few times I heard this were less than ideal- through headphones at necessarily low volume. Harsh fucking noise at low fucking volume, you snort, why fucking bother? I see your fucking point, I answer, but I fucking need my fucking Enceph. You fucking fuck.
   Still, even at low fucking volume, the essential fucking harshness still comes fucking through. In fact, the Harshnoise At Low Volume Test or HALT, as demonstrated by my colleague here Professor Blumpy, is I think often a good measure of the brute power of the shit. Or, I mean to say, the brute fucking power of the fucking shit. You fucking fuck.
   The eight tracks are collected mainly from a handful of relatively low-run 7 inchers, indexed in order of release (and presumably of recording date). This latter was a good move. Throw on a random piece of Enceph from the last few years and the timestamp is hard to spot. Here the sense of development through chronology is clear, and welcome.
   The earliest work has all the grisly scars of the Enceph of the moment- harsh, spastic, jagged, pointed, high energy ripping textures, metal junk spew, looped percussive stutter, stop motion balance, unhinged by brutal scorch attacks shrieking across spectrum. As the album progresses, excrement gets harsher, sharper, smellier, more precise, more pointed, ever more rigorous and exacting of obsessively meticulous focus. A quick run through then. Professor Blumpy?
   Er, ahem. Thank you, Slutbag. Just a moment please while I consult my notes. "Molested For Life." Mm-hmm. Presumably an existential statement on the cogent ethos of the noiseperv. It is my stated opinion that this is the most raw of the Surgical Mods, incoming mechanized loop quickly obliterated by rapidly panned junk-spew spasticisms, ripping simultaneously in every direction, to open into widened field of electrified scorch. That's the first twenty-five seconds. Proceed now to massed junk clusters hammering away at the edges, soon to occupy center stage before veering off onto open-ended acoustic-cum-junk stutter. At a critical juncture, mournful acoustic fingerwork sets off a high-pitched, needle-like, singe. Note too the decisive drop into echoing bong chamber, trash smashed and compacted with all brute force. For further discussion of the critical aspects of this and the following three tracks, I would ask that you refer to my previous study, "Tinpot Shit-Pails Hurled All Over The Room, Ripping Holes In Filthed-Out Distortion Walls".
   "Spastic Emotions" drizzles in scraggly dirtfields, blasts open in epileptic scorchfits, shrieks in metal bashed L-R clambering. A generous and diverse array of raw material appears to have been commissioned; refer here to the aforementioned tinpot shit-pails. True to title, the pacing is consistently inconsistent. Those less qualified are therefore advised to steer clear of close study, to minimize the risk of being reduced to spastic gibbering mess. As it is, please see our good friend Slutbag. Any questions? Moving right along. Brief cracks are are roughly prized open to admit rapid-panned junk-scree, soon swallowed up in more cleanly filthed fuzz-belch. Ultimately, the keen ear for scrambling expectation drives monolithic, extended, wet, grey-tinged, machine buzz, dragging on and on, and on. Delicious, slathering. Slurp. Dry humping loop-thump, out.
   "Auto-Induced Manical State" immediately ups the stakes, new gear- or new skills- evidently in play. Much more comfortable interactions with open spaces are afforded, widened stereophonic effects privileging more painstaking and considered heaving of overbilged junk-splatter, sucker punches just that critical degree heavier, hurtful, impactful. Somewhat in keeping with the methodology first expounded in Spastic Emotions, a ground down and brittle texture study consumes a solid half portion to grind things out to bilge-walled finish. "Neurological Failure" originally appeared on the opposite side of the same 7-inch and while every bit as hurtful, is also, per title, a gibber-inducing spastic mess. At no point is the listener permitted reprieve from the frantic hurling of shit-pails across the pan. While I would hesitate to describe this as texture study, there are a good number of interesting, deadened, filth-textures introduced and explored, none of them for more than an instant or two, but all of them intrinsically linked to the essential, full-bore, hurtcore.
   The next two tracks also originally occupied opposite sides of the same platter. Once again the stakes are raised, so high this time, in fact, that the essential achievement is nothing short of- CUM ALERT!- ahem. The Essential achievement here is nothing short of fucking awesome. If you will excuse the digression, "Body Fluids" are needed to- SOUNDS FOR BUTTPHONE!- I say, if I may. "Body Fluids" are needed to, um, lubricate this incredibly dry rush of pure HARSH. Would you excuse me? Slutbag, please, settle down. Moving on. Though principally of the raw, ripped and scorching electronic persuasion, a considerable quantity of blown out junk-scraps are violently bashed about the field, feeding an encroaching sense of considered discombobulation. That discombobulation reaches its zenith in "Moaning Sex", which could well be the winner. What's that? Oh, thank you for your concern. Slutbag has been, um, subdued for the remainder as I'm afraid it may not otherwise end well. Consulting my notes here. Introductory ear-bleed singe-waves explode in dizzying swarms of multi-pronged angular excitement, brief acoustic interludes engaging feedback-tweaked screechers. Total bung-rupture via dis-sheveled low-end turd-burgle, shredded metallic gristle rebounding off fractured enclosure, large meaty crunch-chunks breaking off and hurtling through craggy, distorted, spaces to output: pure fire.
   Rather than fight fire with fire, a relatively puritanical departure in "Living On The Edge", the longest entry and the only one previously unreleased. Comes out the gate swinging, hyper-spastic hailing and blasting. But soon the deferral to fairly steady-on, brute force type, crunch textures. These textures are spread out and broken, sporadically, into fat flatulent chunks, frequent un-centered incursions un-hinging the nerves and fraying any sense of balance. Thus the in-delicate balance, on the edge, to be savagely choked by razor-sharp, razor'd raw, razor wires of twisted metal and grit, gasps for air thick with palpable tension. Persuasive. Punishing. Perfect set-up to the inner war to end all inner wars.
   "My Inner War". No doubt. Within moments any lingering hope of stability, previously eked out On The Edge, has been violently expunged, spasmodic surgically spliced surges of epileptic, apoplectic, frenzy throwing a veritable encepha-load of discombobulation through mangled pain factory of frenetic, herkily-jerked, essence. Harsh, pointed, incisive. Needle-like focused fury. In a way, fairly puritanical follow-up to the puritanical predecessor as previously pronounced, plenty of brute force type crunch texture to spice up proceedings even as the rough-edged metal-pronged glistening lacerations razor through the storm, unending hail of hack splack crack and smack. Much as I hate to delight in other people's misery, I can't help but hope the war has only but begun. Thank you.

[Yrjö-Koskinen]

KOSMODROM - The War of the Worlds CD, NAR
Kosmodrom is emerging to become the cleanest HNW act ever. The cleanest concept, the cleanest conceptual artwork, but certainly not the cleanest walls. The debut album, released after an almost countless number of high quality, good looking tapes (all of which I own), now manifests a strange form of psychedelic, atmospheric Sci-Fi soundscapes. The rumbling noise machine does come out, but it is cushioned in a massive amount of spacious space sonics and cosmic concoctions. Interestingly, and probably coincidentally, the first recording I thought of upon hearing this the first time was Neptune Tower's Caravans to Empire Algol, an album as shamefully underestimated as Wongraven's Fjelltronen, though those albums stem from another time and another scene. In all honesty, it's not correct to speak of "HNW" any more, as the comparisons in the previous paragraph may suggest. Even if this still packs some crunch at times, it's now much more a matter of space ambient/experimental with noise elements. Any Vomiresque rumblings constitute but one element, and seldom to never a dominating element, in a much more smooth experience. The music is certainly dynamic and sometimes ominous, but always very atmospheric and almost always very relaxing. An additional bonus is that it works very well with alcohol (probably other drugs too, but I am a simple man and keep my sins within a Western framework, much like my few but not insignificant virtues). I can imagine this stuff being used together with a video installation; B/W Sci-Fi spliced together with vistas of galaxies and nebulae, but simply listening to this in headphones (or loud on the stereo) works just as well.

I seem to only get around to writing about stuff I like here, but even if you're weary of my recommendations, I'll nevertheless recommend this. Spacetacular.

[Bloated Slutbag]

Digest(ible) spew:

Encephalophonic – Surgical Mods
Precision. Detail. Hurt. The inevitable output of cut-up surgeon edging, inch by seven inch, toward the height of his craft. The height of his hurt, the height of his HARSH. Meticulous, painstakingly crafted attention to detail. There is a reason this kind of thing never caught on: it is hard. Real hard. When done right, it is hard to argue with the essential hurt. The essential pain. Pointed angular shards repeatedly smashing up into and through one another. There are pauses, here and there. There are moments. Perhaps a moment to dwell upon the hyper-spasmic rage of shrieking fits blasting from one earhole to the other. Perhaps a moment to approve the extreme contrast of textures ripping, in semi-erratic epilepsy, across spectrum. But mainly to emphasize the essential SPASTIC inflection setting the nerves on edge. Again and again.

For the full diarrhetic monty, please see here

[Bloated Slutbag]

More semi digest(ible) spew:

Incapacitants – Zouvneree cd (Alchemy)
High-powered high-speed high-end, highly dynamic highs, and lows, flailing wildly, but not unwield-ly, from one spectral extreme to the next, digital drills wheedling out phantasmagorical middle. Despite the coldly precise stabbings, and piercings, a certain amped up warmth, taking room acoustics in a love embrace, fire all your (lazer) guns at once, and explode into space. The most cosmic Incapacitants since Betley welcomed Cosmic Incapacitants, but tightly reigned in by the intense grip of the King(s). Altogether now! Born to be- KA-BLOW! (thank you) That sense of control inevitably gets hurled, violently, through the proverbial plate-glass window via 33 minutes of Bushbashwackers live, massed densities over/under lapping, licking, whacking, supernovas of explosive fury to invite that total chaos of cosmos the chosen were so unambiguously born to channel.

For the full diarrhetic monty, please see here

[Strangecross]

harness- irreversible succession Hologram label. After the Ideopathic tape I was not expecting these live tracks to be so sparse and reserved. Reminds me of Jesse Kudler/Jason Zeh, Mike Shiflet. I think its so great and important that Luke and Shane are making this style in this day, especially live.

[Bloated Slutbag]

One more load of semi digest(ible) spew:

Treriksröset ‎– Kristen Musik Från Rågsved
EAR RAPE. It is no joke, my son. That it seems to have the blessings of the Good Lord only makes it that much more disturbing. As full-filthed and flavorsome as to be expected from The Carlsson but much more tightly constricted, drilling straight-ahead groove through the center of the aural cavities. In the opening gambit, the hefty down-churned bludgeonous bilge-loaded oomph-leanings, as expected. Then the straight-ahead ear-bleed drill into Kingdom Numb, not expected and Not Nice. By any measure. By harsh standards this is not, perhaps, overtly harsh. There are sufficient, and sufficiently, dry, and shredded, scrapings of rough and crumbling raw. Thus the fool obligingly cranks the shit. But through it all, an intense screeching shriekage that simply refuses to allow for respite. By the fifteenth minute, the 'holes are pretty much burnt out. By the end, just scorched, blackened, crusts, smoke rising slowly and mingling with hazy ozone vapors.


For the full diarrhetic monty, please see here

[Bloated Slutbag]

Edward Ka-Spel / Steven Stapleton, Colin Potter / Quentin Rollet ‎– The Man Who Floated Away / The Closer You Are To The Center, The Further You Are From The Edge
The Man Who Floated Away is a good title for the floating atmospherics wafting in wave after wave of slow rolling drift. It is also the title of the spoken narrative courtesy Ka-Spel, so perhaps a question of chicken and egg. What it also is, is good. Ambient tonal bells score wind-swept side streets, derelict alleys, whistling tunnels, but far from empty. Full-up, luxuriant, brimming, busy with concrete clusters that could be sourced from street corners, bus stations, train stations, as though egging to transport listener together with protagonist... One day the need to escape became so strong he found he did not even have the patience to walk to the front door and step outside his apartment... The voice is not singular, but plural, pushing the somewhat disturbed yarn in miniature vignettes, here at the fore, there a shadow half hidden behind curtained window. I'm reminded of some of the late 80s early 90s work you might get from characters with one foot in the industrial patches, PGR/Merzbow/Tiechens GRAV or Merzbow/Heemmann Sleeper awakes.... Not so much in sound palate but more in how the clusters swell in seeming coincidence of concert to sometimes achieve critical mass. At proper levels the foundations are shaking in sympathy with our mixed-fortunate hero. Still very much sedate, stately, overlapping crests building, sighing, caressing, drawing attention out, up, and away.
   The second track is quite a contrast, Colin Potter molesting saxist rarely elsewhere encountered. Plainjane piano driven plinketies feed Nursey drone of rasped sax, reversed waver, wobbled quaver, so all is well. But then the shattering, into tiny twitching bits, headless chicken squawks fluttering in panicked dis-rangement over rapid incisions of alternately drawn-out and fragmented voice, amused airs, sporadic slaps, freeform kitchen clutter. Perhaps taking cues from the first track, scattered elements cluster together at intervals, threatening to overwhelm, but never quite, soon driven snickering into corners, scampering about with sinister glee before droning undercurrent calls the reedy spectacle home to roost.

[Baglady]

SEWER ELECTION - Killing For Belgium C30 (Harsh Head Rituals)
If the collab Killing Sessions puts you right in the middle of a natural disaster/battle scene/scary situation, Killing For Belgium has you sitting comfortably somewhat above that scenario. Panoramic destruction. Like an aural harsh noise take on Where's Wally?, or a two-page war scene in some Moebius comic. Side A is a varied affair. Burning hot rumble ebbs and flows, sometimes taking a step back to allow for other kinds of badness to shine, with heavy showers of feedback throughout. Side B has you moving slightly closer to the carnage. More straight, less varied and more wallish, but still distinctly different from the collab Killing Sessions in that you can still easily single out all the parts and details. This might just be one of my favorite SEWER ELECTIONs.

[ConcreteMascara]

SEWER ELECTION - Killing For Belgium C30 (Harsh Head Rituals)
If the collab Killing Sessions puts you right in the middle of a natural disaster/battle scene/scary situation, Killing For Belgium has you sitting comfortably somewhat above that scenario. Panoramic destruction. Like an aural harsh noise take on Where's Wally?, or a two-page war scene in some Moebius comic. Side A is a varied affair. Burning hot rumble ebbs and flows, sometimes taking a step back to allow for other kinds of badness to shine, with heavy showers of feedback throughout. Side B has you moving slightly closer to the carnage. More straight, less varied and more wallish, but still distinctly different from the collab Killing Sessions in that you can still easily single out all the parts and details. This might just be one of my favorite SEWER ELECTIONs.

Nice review, couldn't agree more. I love this tape! Granted I don't have a lot of SE's tapes, but I picked this one up at Sarvilevyt or Hospital 8 or 9 years ago and it has remained one of my favorite harsh noise tapes since.

[Peterson]

Of Habit "Viable Device" (Index Clean, 2019)
Of Habit "Extended Technique" (Entr'acte, 2017)
        Never thought I'd be interested in stuff like this, but makes sense in the bigger picture. Weird, meticulously-assembled electronic "music" with spoken word instead of traditional lyrics/singing. Definitely has origins in hip-hop/rap and the "wrong kind of industrial," e.g. techno, none of which I'm any kind of fan of (except maybe a dozen rap tunes). I'd even go as far as to say the main comparisons I have for this, I'm really no fan of: The Streets, Sleaford Mods, minimal techno whatever the fuck that I don't give two shits for. You might be thinking, "are you gonna talk about 'noisy textures' in Kanye West's music yet," but I assure you this is going in a different direction.
        I checked this project out more for the guy's involvement in Spoils & Relics, a group I probably should be a huge fan of, yet for some reason own nothing by. As above, this fella must certainly have some background in "regular" music, but what we get from both releases leans more toward S&R in terms of editing and abstraction. It's the monotone vocal delivery covering surreal, "modern" topics especially, which helps place this more in the non-music/weird/other category.
        The album for Index Clean seems to be right at home, and admittedly the association was one reason I checked the project out to begin with. This one is stranger, colder, and louder, almost veering on harshness at times, with a sharp and precise digital sound. "Dark web" references, etc. Non-danceable rhythms and beats collide with surprisingly oddball synthetic and occasionally acoustic sound. This offering, I suppose, is darker, if I had to put a word on it –  an anxious, drugged, exhausted and tense atmosphere. Hallucinatory and paranoid, even.
        The cassette for Entr'acte is perhaps my favorite of the two, both still being total gems and for me, totally out of left field. Ratio of beats and rhythms perhaps a hair higher than the above, but maybe that's just because I like the chosen beats about two percent more – there's a tasty latin-sounding part that is like an Esplendor Geometrico outtake. Maybe slightly less vocals on the B-side of this release than the above, too. All experimental/concrete elements are ultra- precise as above, but now treated with razor-sharp reverb. Tape dub adds a hard-hitting analog warmth. Atmosphere/attitude more adventurous and self-assured, but the spoken voice is still mumbly and perhaps a bit under the influence. Overall effect on me is relaxing which was unexpected but welcome.
       I don't know. Maybe if you're like me and you're not really into "regular electronic music," so check this out and find what you maybe feel is lacking in all of that. I did. Please recommend to me, if you know of any: more weird, beat-driven electronic music with non-rhyming, spoken vocals with little or no effects. This may appeal to fans of: JH1.FS3, Red Wine & Sugar, Esplendor Geometrico.

Matthew Revert "Letters to Friends of the Late Darcy O'Meara" (Round Bale, 2018)
Matthew Revert "The Honey Dodger" (Thalamos, 2019)
        For anyone unfamiliar, Revert can be sort of pigeonholed into a description more or less like a "folksy" version of some of the other weird Aussie genius stuff also going on down there: think Matthew Hopkins, Index Clean-affiliated projects/artists, and what have you. A lot of Revert's material features acoustic guitar and a sort of hazy, sunny quality amidst his sound-collage clatter. His lyrics seem to have a well-intentioned pessimism and strike me as humorous, perhaps unintentionally. So, the lazy "singer-songwriter" label isn't entirely off. Thing is, his work for No Rent and collaborations with Vanessa Rosetto, while always listenable and quite beautiful, can veer into noise territory and sometimes be, dare I say, harsh and unsettling.    The point here is, Revert is more readily compared to the Shadow Ring than Nick Drake, for me anyway. I see his tendency to be (often all at once) playful, scary, and weird reminiscent of the now-defunct Lambkin/Goss vehicle – well, their decent work. Much of their output I find unlistenable.
        So anyway, I think the reference rings true on these most two recent cassettes, which remind me of the above-mentioned in that we get Revert still in playful mode, but also being fairly creepy and ill-at-ease throughout both, much like the material from the Shadow Ring which I do enjoy. There are sections in "Letters" where insinuations are made as to having had something to gain from, or a perhaps a hand in, this O'Meara's death. The maniacal laughter, pleading and weeping in "Dear May," for one, is...suggestive. The sound work is just that, and the instrumentation when it occurs, is for texture rather than to form each track into a "song."
        With "Dodger," instrumentation, including synthesizer, various strings, wind and percussion, is central, in almost a return to form to the older, folksy releases. Although the vocal/lyrical delivery feels more poetic than unhinged (as above), we're still in weird/bizarre/seemingly-disturbed territory. The label honcho described this tape as "gripping," and I definitely agree. It's seen more spins than the above and more one-sitting full-listens. One of Revert's eeriest tracks yet is featured here: "Sailor Moon, S01 E07," the weirdest sound poetry piece I have ever heard.
        I frankly don't know what to say about Revert's work without feeling stupid and pompous. As with similar artists, I suspect there's some inside-joke element I'm too American/dense/obtuse to get. Then again, why try and justify such things? It's not as if "in on it" is a real form of participation, for that matter. I don't really care, because I find his work both very disturbing and exceedingly pleasant. Those unfamiliar 'til now and for some reason curious might do well to start with Not You (Kye, 2014) for the aforementioned "folksy" style, Being Small (Kye, 2017) for something that'd be very much at home on Index Clean, or Everyone Needs A Plan (Erstwhile, 2018) for a gorgeous collaboration with Vanessa Rossetto. The above-reviewed represent staggering progress, or regression, from those mentioned here, depending on how you look at it. Both readily streamable on Bandcamp for those not willing to take the plunge. TL;DR: For fans of: Whitehouse, The Shadow Ring, Henri Chopin.

[FreakAnimalFinland]

TRERIKSRÖSET "Kristen Musik från Rågsved" LP
Harbinger Sound
Mono noise. That's specified on the cover. Been listening about 60 CD's worth of Merzbow in last couple of weeks and appreciating it's vivid usage of stereo panning and other such tricks. Step to Treriksröset mono harsh noise hits hard and brutal. In good way. Not that I would oppose colorful and neat noise, but despite clean looks of this album, and the title which is not a ironic remark, there is something dark and grim in the noise that Treriksröset does. It is highly active and sounds that could be live-in-the-bedroom type of recordings. Many rotten and ripping sounds, always on the move, but still somehow ... bleak and grey scaled sonics. Listened album instantly couple of times and certainly needs more spinning.

[PedestrianOrgans]

TRERIKSRÖSET "Kristen Musik från Rågsved" LP
Harbinger Sound
Mono noise. That's specified on the cover. Been listening about 60 CD's worth of Merzbow in last couple of weeks and appreciating it's vivid usage of stereo panning and other such tricks. Step to Treriksröset mono harsh noise hits hard and brutal. In good way. Not that I would oppose colorful and neat noise, but despite clean looks of this album, and the title which is not a ironic remark, there is something dark and grim in the noise that Treriksröset does. It is highly active and sounds that could be live-in-the-bedroom type of recordings. Many rotten and ripping sounds, always on the move, but still somehow ... bleak and grey scaled sonics. Listened album instantly couple of times and certainly needs more spinning.

Damn, definitely another necessary addition to the wax collection then. Especially since I just put up a Treriksröset poster in my recording space ;)

[ricjaff]

Dave Phillips - Abgrund / Clearing

I've tried to digest some other Phillips material in the past but thus far it's been too sparse and disjointed for me. Regardless, these two works are conceptually sound and engaging with undeniable precision. Abgrund is a sonic palette of creakings, human/animal squealing and groaning, flies buzzing, throat gurglings, distorted sexual moans, dog barks/howls, etc., which is not anything new for Phillips. However, the rising and falling of all these sounds, as they're being progressively juxtaposed, is supported by heavy piano keys and string assemblies that rise and fall with the tension the other sounds create. The panning of these sounds and attention to production details result in a swirling miasma of animalistic horror that creates more palpable tension than anything I have heard, regardless of genre, in a while. A truly haunting and almost paranoia-inducing experience.

Clearing has a more literal narrative backed by whispers/groans/screams of Phillips regarding the relationship between man, animal, and the planet within the context of Anthropocene. It's a more 'traditonally' structured execution in the sense that each track has some sort of inhuman/manipulated instrumental pulse to it, while the beastly screams and groans convey lyrical content. It's arguably more forceful than Abgrund in its delivery as a result, even breaching into some death industrial aspects at times.

[Bloated Slutbag]

See bottom of this post for digest commentary.

TEF – Framework
Good to get TEFed up after a near 10 year absence from the studio. What's changed? Not fucking much. The same commitment to intense, intensely spastic, concentration. The same break-neck speed of hack, s-s-stammer, and ssssssslash. The same obsessive focus on the most minuscule, incremental, elements. The same maxing out of the audible spectrum, giving the cones a good and proper rip-out. The same deferral to HARSH.
   It's a nice day, so I think I'll plonk this on the portable, venture outside. Deep inhalation. Ahhh. Spring is in the air. Soft wind gently blows. Birds twitter sweetly from tree to tree. Fragrant flowers color the calm, delicate petals blushing pink with promise. Careful clearing of the throat, and into this peaceful scene- rabid shrieking horde of compulsive spasticators, trampling in rage of incandescent fury, Jerk-like algospasm, hot messed degradation, filth-flecked salivation, whole-sale degeneration, bilge-crusted sphinct-rupture, ravishments of precarious, throat-fisted, SHIT-valanche. Slip. Slop. ssssssssSLAP. Gulp, chug, choke, splurt, bleed. Total. Earhole. Fuckfrenzy.
   "Horde", above, may be overstating things. It's a matter of proportion. With so much RAW (and HARSH) forced, by dint of obsessive cut-em-up exacerbation, into minuscule frames of space-time, weird shit happens. Perspective shifts, warps, is shattered into multiples, hordes of multi-headed, multi-angled, mal-lignment. And in this particular frame of space-time, a fair few filthy bastards are clearly in on it. Encephalophonic. Scum. Jaakko Vanhala. Call it: the season of the spastics. Enter now, to spasmodic hail of strangelove gesticulation, Spastic Extraordinary And Plenipotentiary. The grand-spazzy of them all. Tumultuous Epileptic Furor.
   The purest sign of the TEF is the absence of what might be termed artistic bullshit. What you get, rather, is a shit-load of pure scorch. Scorched purity. Jagged-edged, rapid-fire, angular, straight-through-the-'holes purification. Earhole cleansing. The pure stuff, okay? But hold your heils there, Mr Noise Nazi, I think I just spotted some. Artistic bullshit! And wait, holy shit, there's another. And another. What the... In between the massed clusters of shrieking, all-in-red, purity, momentary glint of untreated metallic fragment, subtle inflection, abbreviated duck into cavernous grotto, inward collapse of concrete coating, embarrassed blurt of humping transistors caught in the act, loopus interruptus, painful grimace of purple meatstick snarled in fevered zip-zap-yeeeOWch. The net effect is like never-relenting volley of concentrated fecal bursts, ripped into pieces and frantically frankensteined together, Igor clocking up the overtime, desperate to splice the multi-perspective tale of master's long absence into forty-three minutes and thirty-five seconds of concentrated, convulsive, shitzophrenia. Tugjobbed Ejaculatory Feculence.
   Eleven Frames here, broken into sets. Three sets of balls-out blast, three interludes of balls-in brood. The first of these consists of three Frames, of approximately three minutes each. Good clean start: straight-edged, razor thin, piercing. Then the unbuckling and dropping of motherload: full-out hyper-spasmic all-cylinders saturated blasting, frenzied, full-spec dynamic celebration of extreme contrast accelerating through wicked turns, rapid climbs, steep descents, at ear-popping, neck-jerking, velocity. So that's pretty much the full wack blown in the first forty-eight seconds, not sure what to do with the rest of the album. Shut your dirty hole and pay attention, growls the harshhead, shit's just getting warmed up. Alright, so now at the fifty-seven second mark and a bit of looped malfunction over and through which utterly explosive fury shreds the teeniest specs of dead air, flashes of near percussive scrap-n-clash banging out stuttered tattoo on mangled porcelain grill. Tight, ultra-tight, delivered with such precision and consistency one hardly need bother with track markers. Still the subtle hint of deviation entering the two subsequent Frames. Frame 2 an almost perfect derangement of hyper-sonic particles, flash-framed metal canister hemorrhaging against severely singed air-biscuit blisters. Frame 3 allows further saturation of the signal, to hunker down and concentrate on brief blurts of blown out turd burble. Tense Ectospasmic Flatulence.
   Frame 4 signals the first break in form, semi-percussive loop hammering away down the center while l-r'd clanks of un-effected junk-clatter flit in and out of frame, rust, nuts, bolts, hinged squeals. A few well-positioned harsh-blasts just to keep you off-balance, then enter the second set of balls-out blast. Frame 5 convincingly clambers to the peak of off-balance excess, peppering the raging scorch-fits with darts of acoustics, voice, crowd noise, disembodied tomb exploration, all shredded raw in fully ripped rages of pure yammering spasmation. Brilliant. Frame 6 and no less brilliant, abbreviated study of alternately frantic and composed fragmentation, drawn out signals clogging pipes, bursting open, exploding, imploding, free-form squiggle, clinkety-plop, then solid half-minute of blackened wobba-wobba. Frame 7 takes things back to the start, focused, tight-spliced cluster-scrunch fighting whitewashed singe-textures and raggedly contoured, off-kilter, loopus insanus, all stops pulled, all guns out, blazing hot fire. Tortured Epic Ferocity.
   Frame 8 and a second interlude of brood, distant atmospheric scour of dragging metals, cycling slowly in continuous arcs of clouded resonance. The much-needed respite from studied 'hole drillage is as welcome as it is fleeting, cause you just know the final destruction is coming, and coming harrd. Frame 9 ups the tension with half-minute of semi-eerie quaver and then- The End. What to say, there are cracks in the white-hot sheeting, but few and far between. Of the artistic bullshit, a few scrapes of the barrel, little more. Faint whiffs of violently mangled music bleed through severe, needle sharp, shriekage as fatter flatulent belch-curdles rip through the off-center. Pretty much total screechstorm the whole way through. Epileptic feeding frenzy of continuously dis-rupted erruption, but the main point seems to be: drill the earholes a new one. Frame 10 and like, fuck me gently with a tefsaw, does The Novak go out a-swinging. Swinging wildly from extreme to extreme, pulling in all the stop-motion frames, all the frenetic dis-ruptive sphinct-ruptures, eye-blinks of open space quickly filled with, literally, everything at hand- and whole piles of stuff way out of hand. Nice little decelerations to affect patient study in slow-panned introspection, but serving mainly to stress the full-force full-metal spastic, cuts coming so fast and harrd one barely has time to get one's bearings... whip of the neck, snap of the spine, smash of the face. Hell, <spits out a tooth> fere are no bearings. Must be all them crazy fluctuations. Turbulent Execrable Fluc-u-asians
   A final frame of quiet psych quaver, as though to mimic the ringing in the ears. Thanks for that. Asshole. T.E.F.


Digest spew:

TEF – Framework
TEF, ten years on, is TEF. White-gloved attention and focus on only the choicest cuts, delivering breakneck collisions of blown-out harsh particles exploding in ill-contained rage. Well-contained rage. Whatever. A perfect storm, if you will, of harsh cut-up purity. Ten years on and perhaps some signs of change. A few more experiments with quieter introspection. A bit more space for un-affected acoustics to twist and twerk. More opportunity for subtle intricacies to flesh out the delicious core. For the most part full-force full-metal spastic, like why mess with a winning formula. Total earhole fuckfrenzy par excellence.

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[Lazrs3]

S.T.A.B. Electronics - Enemy of Pigs - 2019 - LP/MC - Unrest Productions.

I was on the phone to someone tonight talking about music, we got to talking about the S.T.A.B. gig last Saturday and why I like S.T.A.B. so much, I didn't do a good job of explaining why. So the purpose of this review is to persuade you to get this album and explain why S.T.A.B. is so good. I am feeling the pressure.

Like may listeners I like to discover stuff that I haven't heard before, but sadly with a good percentage of Death Industrial and Power Electronics I often arrive after the party and a lot of the older acts that still exist today are a parody tribute to their former selves and I can't be arsed anymore paying daft discogs prices for that stuff. And what's the point of spending all my cash doing that and going to all these fucking US and Euro Industrial Fests to see the best acts and line ups - I prefer to hold out for a stronger local scene instead. Reading a recent interview in Special Interests that you've all no doubt read, led me to S.T.A.B. and I took the dive and bought two S.T.A.B. albums. It was exciting for two reasons, the standout tracks on Day of the Male absolutely blew my head right off, it is a now project, next level and better than most stuff from back in the day and now if I'm honest. Finding a good, present day act is a massive reward to me as a listener.  Months later I'm in London in a crowded room while S.T.A.B. shouts in my face, it wasn't glamorous, it was raw, real, now and it seemed to happen at me. As soon as the gig was over, I went back to the hotel and wrote my review, I could have made lots of new friends and connections, but I really wanted to hold on to what I saw and heard. As soon as I got home the next day, I played Enemy of Pigs through twice and was really surprised.

Repeated vocal samples of 'Mother, Mother Mother, please' form the base of High Infant Mortality, whilst drones radiate ominously, and the vocals rage away from the background to the foreground continuously. The drones do tease slightly at the past while the vocal is anchored in the present; I feel in the middle of the elements experiencing the dialogue.

Slugs delivers aggressive, threatening humming feedback and faltering wall noise while the vocal is way uglier and more direct. The vocal is more like what was spat in my face last Saturday so it subconsciously seems directed at me whilst the electronics try desperately to interrupt the diatribe, they try, they don't give up, but they don't win either. I don't know if I am taking this personally or happily reminiscing.

Her Dead eyes is horrible, overly descriptive to me it seems to describe the horror of extreme porn/sex, but it makes you think, it really challenges you, everything yet nothing is revealed, the high-pitched squealing vocal is less effects laden than previous recordings, it raw, rank and very real.  This is the end of the first side, it's muddier, yet vocally a lot less effects laden than earlier work and retreats into the murk to deliver a horrible, harsher dose of reality.

Of Misandry is sampled dialogue that serves as a bass for massive drones to spread their horror as the vocals distort in the background, by doing this, you're forced to concentrate on the vocal. The drones are as radioactive as they can be, as if diseased and echoing death. The gender war continues within S.T.A.B.

Sic Semper Tyranis (Thus always to tyrants) radiates sickness as the drones intensify continuously and the vocal spews and curses away from foreground to background. The electronics are simple and effective. Violent Reprise boasts an inhuman, grotesque vocal and sicker electronics, the album is intensifying continually. Prayers form I am going To Die (And so are You), they're temporarily eclipsed by urgent, repetitive electronics as the vocal really comes to the forefront, it's as if the best is saved until last, vocally.  The sample's continual re-emergence amplifies the songs context massively.

Enemy of Pigs isn't dominated by a few Standout tracks, it is consistently strong and I'd argue that the vocals don't reach the same levels of intensity as Day of the Male did (barr I am going to die). In a way it steps back to find a solid continuity and really defines S.T.A.B. as an act in its' own right - there's way less Homage on this album. There are newer, interesting vocal techniques demonstrated throughout – Sic Semper and violent are key examples. Here the act moves on, progresses, it's stripped back reinforced by some conceptually strong sampling and dirtier, muddy electronics. I'd say its way more depraved from the inside, rather than projecting outside themes, but that's been ongoing too. In some ways this is a person becoming the performance, the self's past and present are the theme, but done in an original way. S.T.A.B. was in the right circles from the outset (Unrest, Urishma, Filth and Violence) from looking and listening it got better until it got this good. But is this radioactive, headfuck slab of vinyl S.T.A.B.'S best or one of its best? Time will tell, but for now, it is stuck in my head and I can't stop listening, I really wish I could, but I can't. Let's see if anyone matches it this year.