Sewer Election & Ligature – GBGNYC 2017
I was trying to decide if I should be disappointed at the willfully impenitent capitulation to harsh purity here ventured. I mean, given the breadth of idiosyncrasy elsewhere traversed by the two parties concerned, expectations were tweaked somewhat toward an artsier fartsier indulgence.
It was a short conversation. The raw searing energy relentlessly blasting forth pretty much drowns out the possibility thinking coherently, let alone having anything to say about it. This is particularly true of the first half, "Dedicated to Skitslickers". An initial investment in looped, wet-mouthed, dirt-hole poke, kinda like choking, in slow-motion, on dental tools lodged in the throat, very quickly gives way to all-out, full-throttle, blasting. Then the blasting gets thicker, richer, heavier, sinking into dense layers of tightly-girded security wall, feedback strains giving off a distinctly metallic stench of burnt ozone cum wet fur. On the first couple spins it was all about the rush of lows thundering on through. But I notice too that the 'holes are currently smoking from the constant high frequency shriek buried in the rough. Shit's harsher than it sounds.
There's a bit more too it than that, however. There is shift and there is change, evolving by subtle increment. There is even a fair measure of breathing space afforded, a comfortable roomy quality to the bottom end, sufficient to accommodate the fatter-arsed flatulent bungloads blubbering away. I'm almost sure I detect a submerged voice wailing in sympathy, unless its just the feedback echoes fucking with my skull. At eight minutes, a sudden un-plugged collapse to wooded clack and crinkle, hissy vacuum swept dirt floors percolating amid more acoustic slap crackle plop, going out with interview clipped reference to beating up some asshole, which is pretty much the only way to go.
"Dedicated to The Mad" does not much deviate from the format previously established. Half second screaming mad I love noi- condensed into two dimensional pointed shriekage, rough, bristly, blistering, gradually acquiring additional dimensions, depths. It acquires quite the crapload of em. Dimensions, depths, I mean. Coarse, burnt out, underbellies. Thundering, bludgeoning, gut punches. Redzoned, hole-cleansing, whiteout. Piercing, peak-register, screech. And in the process gets plenty harsh. Perhaps this, too, is captured in the choice of titles- the first a filthier Swedish sort of butt-roughage, the second, this one, higher-end Nihon-esque scorcheries that would no doubt earn the approval of an Incap or two. That Mikawa, he loves noise. It is at the four-or-so minute mark that I start to note a distinct flattening of the yield curve, rocketing risk premiums all but scuttling my future ability to hear a goddamn thing. In short, total ear scorcher. For a good and solid two-and-one-half minutes. Whoa fuck yes. We love noise.
Then, abrupt collapse, again mirroring the previous side. This time the wooded clack and crinkle gets all atmospheric upon the fundament, gaseous echoes wafting through decayed, fetid collage of raw-boned gristle-scrape and rumpled, snuffling, ditch-snort. The image is of some diseased gutter troll grubbing around gnarled and festering sludge heap, periodically stumbling headlong down the side in a spray of spit and gravel, which is pretty much the only way to go.
