Regosphere & The Vomit Arsonist – An Inquiry Concerning the Indications of Insanity tape
Andrew Grant meet Andrew Quitter. Quitter, Grant. "Good evening, Dr Grant. I was wondering if I might interest you in pursuing a certain line of inquiry...?" Thud. Have I...? Start into into dank if rather sanitized confines, patients to be tested in slow squirming growth of festering darkness. I...? Patience child. Muffled basement floor clunking, greyed and wasting oscillations, deepened rumbling drone. Darkambient meets deathambient in a shimmering death chamber, marriage made in some untethered bowel of inner hell. Cold and clinical may be the intended effect but I'm feelin' pretty darn toasty in a chamber brimming with layered synthesized clouds of heavenly deathfloat. You say "Mechanized Lobotomy" I say give me another shot of codeine. Ahhh... Truly, this is the DEATH. "Nurse, the scalpel please..." Slash that smile off your face. Hollowed-out ghost of whitened, metallic, shriek. Taste of ozone. Labored, measured, breathing. Solid state murmur to usher in grim, clinically bleak, frigidity, chilled to the fucking bone. An atmosphere of decided dis-hingement, dis-settlement. Threats of quite vicious strains of brutality ever present but never quite delivered. Cabinets slam open and shut, rusted hinges start to protest. The whitened ghost-shriek unveils, by degrees, white-coated perv molesting large floppy sheet of waffling scrapmetal. Final ka-BLOW! to precipitate B-side "The Asylum As Utopia": downward, dragging, dragging, rhythmical. Pulse... pulse... pulse... Upward flows of sibilant ssshitmospherics. A voice enters, gasped out, raspy, scalding. Ventilating. Steady irruption of scrap elements in refined and textured collapse. Wetmouthed synth burblings. Singed feedback bleedthrough. Pulse... pulse... pulse... The voice acquires a degree of coherence, clenched full of aggro, gripping spastic at quite fully loaded densities, heaving ponderous blacking out of spectrum, reaching for the throat, reaching for the sky. Houston, we have lift off. I'm afraid the good doctor has just about lost it. "The drama! The drama!" Pulse... pulse... pulsssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss.
Vomit Arsonist – You Will Never Get What You Deserve tape
Mr Grant continues his long descent into pit after pit... of unending existential dread, of suffering, of distress. Gloom, doom. The good stuff. Atmospheric, as it were, as fuck. Enter, cold clammy cave of blackened despair. Drawn out deathdrone, smudged-out howl, bled-out seethe. Snippets of clipped negatory verbiage mutter about the skull. And then the Voice proper, coming in declaratory waves, not so much erupting as inaugurating a distinct concatenation of variegated, negatory, vibration. Percussive thunder, huge and heavy, begins to rain down with each echoing utterance, gaping spaces to fill up with more muttered verbiage, the voices in your skull ever mindful of the great and crippling disadvantages of consciousness. Jet engines in piercing sink, the drop of bomb, percussive explosion, expulsion. Whoops. Sorry about that. "Accidents Happen". An excuse, a threat, a promise. B-side far more full-on, if not exactly furious. First, the sledged-hammering thunk-action. Then the buzzed-out synthilations. The Voice proper emerges, sharpened to a point if somewhat submerged in the mix. And that hammer keeps a-thunking. The synthilations keep buzzing, acquiring shades of mottled depth. The voice starts to stretch, elongate, ripping through the carefully regulated dialog of the three principles. Mounting of tensions, biting of nails. At a critical juncture, the thunking falls away, succeeded by mournful strains of descending strings. Postmortem death song. Voice repeatedly rupturing the calm, synthilations bloating in concert, muscles rippling, threatening to distort. Accidents may happen but nothing accidental about this shit: witness, on the contrary, the well and crafted perv-vision of singularly diseased virtuosity. Threat of distortions fade, make way for the Voice and nothing but the Voice, the will, the rage. You will never get what you fucking deserve and be thankful for that!
Shift – Ruminations tape
Dirge-toned sputtering flatline. Anonymous through-the-wall wail. Soundly administered, dry-boned, Slap! Slap! Slap! Just the thing to set this series of pointed ruminations in motion. As perhaps befits the title proper, there are no track titles to speak of, in fact no text whatsoever, save a brief dedication on the sleeve "For the falling..." Actually there's a huge amount tiny, rather obscured text on the foldout, the discernable bits of which read like a manifesto of sorts, a declaration, a call to arms- or lengthy set of lyrics. It's in the ruminations. Us and them. You and I. (Hope I'm not forgetting anyone.) As the flatline starts to waver slightly, a distorted voice cuts suddenly into proceedings- and its got a lot to say. "Let them not project their failure as human beings on us anymore." One memorable nugget. "I'll take solace in your misery until you draw your last wretched breath." Another. Layers of wavering, dirge-toned, flatline begin to converge, to coagulate, to dominate the field. The slapping continues in earnest and the voice continues its accusations... of abandonment, betrayal, bitterness, desertion... But we are by now just about given over to increasingly full-bodied auricular assault. Searing, bleeding, spittle-tronic layerings, pushing ever upward, the voice, growing more impassioned, serving now as texture, performing harshening up duties to sudden heated upping of high-powered analog shriek, glittering peak of punishment, searing, skin-peeling, ultimate ambience made flesh. Bitter! Abandoned! Deserted! Betrayal! Well, betrayal of my fucking ability to hear that's for sure. It is only when the tape clicks to a temporary halt that the earholes realize they've been raped raw. Possibly in recognition of the damage done, the flip-side eases ever so gently into further ruminations. Drawn-out descent of linear oscillation massages the burnt passages before chunks of thick and heavy crunch starts to drop into the otherwise peaceable gathering. Layers of variant oscillation, on the incline and the decline, and then the voice rips – vociferously - into the picture, picking up pretty much where it left off. Let their disease be their fall. I'll drink your poison as a reminder of who you are. Halfway through and some quite beguiling textures filter through the periphery, gravelly distortions meet other-worldly woozings, lending proceedings a much fuller sense of dimension, dipping at intervals into a deeply glowing, darkly glimmering, psychedelic pool. This time around the earholes are spared in favor of something distinctly... audiophilic. Soon, however, the massed electronics break away, and a last, emphatic, echoing, vocal pronouncement escorts a slow wobbling vibrato unto sweetest oblivion, to leave this world a peaceful place, to leave this world in peace.
