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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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