Treriksröset - Heteronormativ Musik För Att Stärka Medelklassens Självbild
This one had me on my knees groping about in semi blindness for every last dab of Trerik I've got scattered about the teetering stacks (an indecorous position in which I'm no doubt bound to be found dead one fine day). All to confirm my naggling suspicions: the titty tape is quite possibly the most ripped raw, blasted-to-shit, burnt out Treriksröset since Sexregler. And I say this only because my copy of Sexregler denies my initial suspicious: that the titty tape is the most ripped raw, blasted-to-shit, burnt out Treriksröset ever... leaving me to suspect that the years and playbacks have been unnecessarily cruel to said copy. Either that or my auricular memory is shot to shit. Just in case I've lost you, let me repeat the lead descriptors: "ripped raw, blasted-to-shit, burnt out". So ripped raw, blasted-to-shit, burnt out, in fact, that I was forced to grope about, indecorously, for my copy of Skin Crime's Trauma, re- "completely burnt out damaged sound, like some poor wretch retching and hacking into a mic jammed down his throat whilst his innards are wrenched out with a contact-mic'd wire cutting implement" (via the Skin Crime thread, courtesy your faithful commentator). Which was, on reflection, a wasted effort: Trauma is practically symphonic by comparison. This could draw comparison to Trauma, I suppose, if all the Trauma-tized bits were ground into pulp and then forcibly slammed through tightly constricted metallic orifices (a shameless attempt to salvage comment from all those ill-served minutes of indecorous groping). As the forcible slamming continues in earnest, details begin to bleed through. Bloodied, smothered, pulpy details, such as might be obtained via unceremonious dumping of contact mic'd gear into recalcitrant meat-grinder, grinding out well-bled shits 'n flaps of singed, decelerating, feedback. Side B bleeds in much the same fashion- slowly, imperceptibly, allowing half-buried fragments of char-age to fart through the flatulent filth-walls. At the halfway mark, the filth-walls crumble, razored-raw feedback farts abruptly ripping apart the, um, harsh calm. A single indelicate cut even suggests itself at one point. Here one may begin to enjoy an emergent play of haphazard stab and bleed, well-worried metallic sphinct-hole having endured more than its cassette-worth's allotment of forcible slamming. An open-ended, ripped raw, blasted-to-shit, burnt out finish, then, well worth the grope.
