Linekraft - Apocalypse Factory
Linekraft has been wailing on hunks of metal long enough that you pretty much know what to expect. Which may explain the decision here to throw a wrench in expectations. Liner notes credit "Metal Junks, Tapes, Electronics, Voices", in that order. But Electronics- proper, oscillating, analog Electronics- play a much more central role than might otherwise be expected. By the same token, the Metal Junks get prodded a little bit further back along the assembly line.
This is not immediately apparent in opener "Purge", feeding back whines setting a somewhat severe tone around which a barrage of Metal Junks get hurled about the channel pan. Sure the Metal Junks are somewhat muted, somewhat rotted, rusted out, distorted, evocative of a decrepit factory grinding itself down, slowly going to shit. But with a title like Apocalypse Factory...at any moment the heavier metal thunder is due to start crashing in from every which angle, through every which orifice. Any moment now. Any moment, just you wait...and wait. Uh...Sequenced machine-bleat takes the stage, fingers snap at the periphery. Wheedling whinges compete with squealing oscillators, scattered speech fragments and a barrage of Metal Junks that are, on the whole, just one small part of a dense and full bodied texture. Texture is in constant sickening motion, weaving in and out, alternately stripped back and overloaded, the overall atmosphere one of woozy, smoked out, near-psychedelic decrepitude.
Okay, now. Linekraft temporarily "purged" of total Metal Junk obsession, what might there be had in track 2, "Apocalypse Factory-1"? Certainly this, this is to get things back onto track. Uh, isn't it? Well, there are three of these title tracks, -1, -2 and -3 respectively. They are marginally longer and generally quite "epic" in scope, throwing an unwieldy mass of ideas and sounds into a veritable orgy of decrepit factories gone to shit. They are also, the lot, densely saturated with reams of heavy oscillating Electronics. Way down in the mix what may be enraged vocal howls away, as though caught up in the clusterfuck of howling machinery coming in from every which angle, every which orifice. I surprise myself here to suggest the first clear Dissecting Table influence. I mean, Okubo-san has long claimed a serious Dissecting Table fetish. But with the careful composition and sequencing of elements I am reminded of some of my favorite DT moments- when the head bopping music stops and all hell breaks loose: raging Metal Junk Bash uber alles. Again, though the Metal Junks are crucial to the general atmosphere, there is so much else going on. Hearts pump, synths sweep, alarms bleat. Continuous wooze of weaving organic extraction. Electronics warbling the whole way through. Submerged if impassioned speech fragments threaten to break through slathering liquid burble, and finally do, end.
As the rhythmical hammering of "Polluted Body" works its way through a mass of dirge-toned sputter-squeal, it is clear that this Linekraft intends to stay the course, eg Metal Junks confined to the under-employed corner, not a single piece of bright piercing steel to the fore, not one bit of it subject to studiously mic'd wailing 'n whanging. Whanging, of haphazard sort, is rather reserved for unsightly, corroded, piles of discarded waste, a health hazard that should never have passed muster...and which is probably the point. Bring on the Four Safety Inspectors Of The Apocalypse. Squeals grow in proportion, a concerned voice utters a warning, too late, gunshots accentuate the terminal verdict. "Apocalypse Factory-2" finds concerned police reporting from a scene of carnage before the factory rumbles, in fits and blurts, to dense and jumbled conglomeration of slow-rolling cavernous din. In "Public Bondage" descending alarm-slide gives out to steady rhythmical hammering that keeps the occasional steam-powered rupture in check, low-mixed vocals choking in sequence to smoldering fuzz-hum. "Apocalypse Factory-3" is an ode to the ghosts in the machine, which make their presence known in growing layers of glowering backwash, hydraulic thudding flattened under bulging sludgeballs of distorto-junk-scrunch. The Apocolypse is here, I can hear it. Revved up and shrieking. Metal Junks smoothed to screeching sheen. Prepackaged, ready-made Apocalypse for the masses. Get 'em while their hot. It has been said that all apocalyptic phenomena are strictly at the level of the individual, so maybe I should be forgiven in taking this personally, but damned if the ghosts in the damn machine aren't speaking to me. A thousand voices of dirge-encrusted decrepitude, entering through every angle, every orifice, negative substance, grinding down the will, slowly going to shit.
