Phocomelus – Bit Of Rough tape
When 20 discs of Skin Crime are not enough... could be time for a bit of rough. Throw in a pinch of harsh an ounce of junk and an assload of dense and you are there. I find myself digging around, in the usual undignified posture, for Whorebutcher, which seemed on first cut to be carved from comparably sinewy stock. Firm, viscous, flowing. Greased up good. Plenty of meaty flavor to sink into and savor, all of it surprisingly well-cooked. From a distance one might even imagine the shit to start hitting a solid, droning, consistency. So not all that raw in general tone- he did say just a bit of rough- at least on the first side. Bits of rough I would take for possible scrap sources do emerge quickly, but spend most of the time almost entirely buried under layers of ravaged seethe n shizzle, white metallic sheets stained and slashed with big ragged eye-holes bled out. The pinch of harsh, administered via pliers with a particularly cruel and abusive hand, is really starting to hurt, the way music should, trails of smoke rising slowly from the 'holes. As for the assload, dense is one word, impenetrable is another. Try making heads or tails of this and trails of smoke start rising from your skull. Elements many and varied intersect at different speeds, suggesting a schizo-frenetic disposition that draws attention at one moment to microspastic epileptic knife-seizures and then at others to a much more measured and deliberate undertow that constantly threatens to drag everything down into fully filthed overbilge. That never happens, of course, the intent clearly to keep your toes tapping your tongue lolling your sphintcter clenching and your eyelids jittering throughout. Get down and boogie, buddy boy. On the flip, and a fair bit more of the rough. The rough is in the bilge harmonics, a festering growth of low-end solids rumbling from the extremes of the l and the r. Heavy masses of thunder descend, pressures mount, micromovements fight for breaks of daylight, of which, of course, there are none. This is good, though, a fightin', strained dialog that, now that I think of it, might actually be real-life voices burbling away. And now that I think about it again, might be some kind of fucked up robot desperately bloopering in distressed disrepair. Febrile, that would be a good word. Or maybe just plain diseased. Ultimately you will never know nor care, electronics in their final lurch, oscillate, screech, nil.
