Acknowledging that I'm long overdue to start posting retarded shit again, two fairly recent bits of retarded shit elsewhere posted (very slightly altered in the requisite altered state):
[INCAPACITANTS - GEERT KOHLER - PRIEST IN SHIT - JSH+ANONYMOUS MASTURBAUDIOUM - Split 2021]
INCAPACITANTS
No offense to the other contributors to this comp, all of whom deliver, but the whole point of this is the indicated.
One of those "let's see what incaps are possibly up to" moments and scored this puppy. More properly-non-coherent-babble to be applied upon receipt of the physical tape.
For now. Quite the baffler. Incaps. Sounding very much in the D.D.D.D. I Residuum The Tongue vein eg when the banker buds were channeling the not-undue influences of the lower-ended Yank crowd. Y'know, low-brow flatulence. Raspberried hefty-boys. Overworked sphincters clocking up the overtime. At least sez me. Um.
Start again. There's this critical point, see, where Incaps flirt with shambolic, but never quite achieve due to the sheer incandescent fury in force. This one sits somewhere in that no person's land. That shambolic-slash-incandescent-fury land. (A pretty cool spot, but a spot upon which judgement passes but fleetingly.)
Now, I know you probably think you've got Incaps' number. You do, right? I know you do. But lately, they've been seriously fucking with the program. Ostracized Enigmatic Conqueror. Survival Of The Laziest. These are fucking KILLER TIMES TEN. Killer times not on the program. And very recently in the pool. That is to say, indicative of an incaps straining against its own confines and delivering something that is both whole-ly incaps and whole-ly flatulating in exciting(ly) new shades of belchtastic. Love me some belchtastic.
Okay.
Now, this. This... thing, which reminds of a few earlier classics, as stated, but which also verges into peculiar WTF territories of more recent bent. Warp. Strain. Grimace. I mean. The textures. Did I mention the textures? They are the thing. The THING. The thing that converts the sometimes questioning worshiper, aka me. Converts the questioner back to believer. Textures what flatulate. Try to finish a sentence but interrupted by: flatulent-hodai. All-you-can-flatulate, raspberries till the sphincters come home.
Start again. I'd really like to know when this particular incarnation of Incaps was born. It is entirely possible that these chaps are, like, poised to RIP THE FUCKING SHIT off of noise. But, like, that's the kind of thing certain persons would say. Especially when said persons are me.
Dare to hope to dream.
Cracksteel, 道産子アナル, Macronympha, Skin Crime, AMB, Astro - v.a.
The only problem with this little gem from Workturm Ghetto is that Cracksteel scorches out the gate with such incandescent blistering fury that we're pretty much holding at why bother by the time the second track kicks in. And with the possible exception of that second track, much bother is offered. Macro a surprisingly psychedelic turn, harsh heavy bottom-dwelling puritannical onslaught not bothering with even the slightest gaps in which to insert the labored huff. Skin Crime sounding much of thereabouts ('96), burnt raw butcherings wrenched amongst the ill-kempt chalknailed flautelence. Autotoxic Mental Bizarrerie necessarily spelt out in full cuz that's how they are, how he always are, but here even more so and with a title like "Scratch Ahead I" to leave the duly triggered goggly'd bout placement of the chicken and the egg or well suffice it to say I'm yes kinda the sort who kinda digs the noise stuff nonetheless had me popping out the tape just to ensure shit wasn't getting mangled god blesh ye merry Mental Bizarreries! Astro on that charburnt acid safari he'd slowly gentrify in subsequent iterations but I still quite like this raw and say it rude warble with few intentions to let things simmer lush and long so be it. As for DO THANK ANAL, well, caught them live once or twice and yes they certainly live up to the name no further ado.
Oh wait, here it comes, the further ado (and how could it not?)
CrackFUCKINGsteel
