Wince - Traum cd
Here is someone clearly conversant in delivery of shitload. Shitload of fat chunky blurt spread wide and runny over bruised and battered field of pure flatulence. Tight-arsed scrap-compaction, crumpled scritch, rumpled scratch. Convergence of brittle textures, equal parts acoustic and electronic, rattling about your skull, an open invitation to appreciate the subtle gradations of unsaturated flat. It takes a while, the dropping of the load neatly drawn out, drawing in focus, soundholes straining for more more more. Radio dials spin through grainy snowbelts, bits of voice burble below the radar. A loosening of the belt and a dip into blabbering brook, mechanized crank. At 4:45 or so a further unloading, jagged junks gouging at heavier, thud-derous, undertow. A slight contraction, and then at the seven minute mark the shit hits the flat: fatter, chunkier blurts forced through sphinct-cracks, splattering in through from every whichever. The field starts to fill out, attain some heft, a certain sense of physical dimension and force. A prevalence now of slightly char-burnt constriction, more sudden expansion, digging down, layering up, attention chasing an uneven series of micromovements before halting toward the end in long slow grind unto extinction. Peak attention thus piqued, "Traum 2" wastes no time ripping into flatus erruptus proper. No real constriction or expansion. No builds into heavier textures. Pure fire. Over and done. Wait a second... Am I trauming or have a heard this before? Flatulant fields. Pure fire. You say Cracksteel I say CrackFUCKINGsteel. At the most concentrated moments I'm tempted to jump into The Kingdom Of Pain (Sac-22), with particular attention reserved for "Into the Drift and Sway". No shittin ya laddie. Alright. Nothing quite so saturated, but certainly no less busy. Without ever really altering general tone, cracked steel scraploads cycle through quite the unyielding play of butt-ruptured drift and spray. Less concentrated moments reveal certain depths otherwise hidden under the massed filths, and it is in fact these moments that elevate this most brutal of servings, serving to drag your noisehead deep into the many and varied cracks, cavities, fissures. A good gauge of the effectiveness of a given noise is its potential at any given volume, low, mid, high, ridonkulous. Now we all know what the noisedonkey demands, but it's somehow just that finer grain more satisfying when you can drift asleep to this without worrying that you'll wake up in the morning with your earholes blasted to kingdom fucked. Look, you have your lullaby, asshole, I have mine. The third and final Traum is perhaps the most traditional in presentation, quick build into sudden screech-flecked splurge, rumpled corporal punishment, assorted spitting and sputtering fighting for dominance. Here it as though burnt scrap sources are struggling to assert themselves in a steaming feedback chamber, backwashed howl punctured by the occasional well-aimed fist, continuous sloppy bled out oscillations successfully mimicking confused and abused earholes ringing from the impact.
