V/A – Leather
Leather fetishists of the world, unite! You have nothing to lose but your, um, harness. Yes alright it needs work. Leather. Right, well, aside from a shared - and no doubt unhealthy - preoccupation with the tanned hides of dumb animals, it's hard to suss the unifying aesthetic. On the one hand, there's a clea- LICK THE BOOTS, CUNT! Er, what I mean to s- LEATHER BELT FRENZY! Well, it certainly needs to b- LORD OF THE COCKRINGS! Now loo- SOUNDS FOR BUTTPHONE!
Sigh.
At least Mania gets things going on the right shoe. Hefty iron-clad thud, echoes muffled by thick cellar door, hammering in slow succession against subtle backdrop of leather'd rub and slither, industrious backroom sweatshopping. Unhurried, leisurely, good time to nip out for a smoke, leave the heavy machinery to thud away. Soon however the slither becomes slather getting whiter, hotter, echoes swelling to bulging bass-heavy crescendo. Flits of feedback steal into the space, now fairly crowded with oscillating drone and faint, gloomy, downpitched beacons. Overall convincing display of leather machining done right, sober semi-bemused documentarian approach that seems to serve the title well.
Encephalophonic, of course, sounds like Encephalophonic. Bonkers level schizo freak-out frenzy, spastic stutter-junk avalanche orgy. Tense, tight, poised, skins of dead animals chafing at the flesh, feel the burn. Masterful mess of mangled metals meet jagged hair-trigger shriek-drillage to output raw scrap-bashing rapid-panned clusterfuck excess. The sound of Mania having an epileptic seizure, accidentally kicking over prized collection of scrap junk, going totally ape-shit in fit of purple-faced rage, fat pointy hack-sawn chunks careening about the room as frazzled electronics scorch ozone-tinged air raw. So pretty much completely un-Mania-like, but good working through of the channel pan, and of the earholes, to the get the blood good and properly pumping. Good and spurting. Don't ask me where the title fits in here, probably wearing leather skivvies while bashing meaty junk-stack, so to speak.
Clinic Of Torture dish extended porn clip masked with grey, dingy fuzz-drone, drizzled drainage funnel choked with pronounced bilge flavoring. Heavier electronic agitations filth up the atmosphere, drawing attention into narrative which, fortunately, is barely parse-able. Just as threats of harshnoise proper promise to rip apart the dis-calm, the whole cuts out completely to welcome enthusiastic bevy of leather'd paddy-wacks. Call in the vocalist. Here you are good sir, huff and puff to your hearts content. Rough dirge-splurt churns out choked bilge flavorings, gathering rust, drudge, steam, salivation, paddy-wacks turned feeding frenzy of paddy-thwacks, ample word of encouragement punctuating sensuous gasp, coo, quiver.
Flip that shit over and here comes the lord of the cockrings, aka Caligula031. Flattened greys of tremulous shivering essence, woozy murked psychedelia shining through even-keeled sheen. Now in comes the voice, dis-torted, dis-tended, relegated to textural duties, repeatedly swallowed up in the murk, and no, it ain't so pleased with these proceedings, can't imagine why. But what this does, see, is heighten the sense of drama, the sense of exceedingly irate individual and the end of his proverbial rope. No relent here, rather a slow build of progressively seering burn as lower extremities report esophageal uptick of flatulent turd-layers, rumbling through the shizzling storms of dry-welled seethe. A bit of ye olde stealth harsh, of which I may say I am the consummate sucker.
Sadio then take the plunge into, pretty much, pure filth. Fully bilged gutter-tronics flecked with shithawked feedback squawk, booties shoved down throats to issue low-grade, low-end, turd burglary of rough, raw, rugged, crud-bilge. Basically total audiophonic wreck, redzone so flooded with crap as to beg the question. Nothing in the specific. Just, the question. In an attempt to get into the spirit of the thing, I started licking the boots with gusto but came away with bitter taste that still lingers. More of that shithawk squawk over mid-range overload, whining feedback just refusing to back the fuck off. Nasty!
What's great about the closing ditty, courtesy Grunt, is it picks up pretty much where Sadio leaves off, but just massively ups the layers of coarse granulated texture. So much shit is there chucked into this mix that one is left to wonder where the attentions are supposed to inevitably fall. Perhaps upon this cute little piece of wriggling sludge vomit. Perhaps to the collapsible crush of cantankerous junk-spew applying pressures from without. Or perhaps to the continuous drilling into aural passages via wheedling flits of abbreviated analog palpitation. When the massed pressure of over-encumbered layers pulls back for an instant or two, hint of scrap sources scour to the fore, but these instants are few and far between. Perhaps a good moment to shuck them skivvies and wiggle about about in ecstatic butt-fervor. I mean, what the fuck do I know? Very probably a leather'd thwacking is in order.
