Encephalophonic – Surgical ModsThe first few times I heard this were less than ideal- through headphones at necessarily low volume. Harsh fucking noise at low fucking volume, you snort, why fucking bother? I see your fucking point, I answer, but I fucking need my fucking Enceph. You fucking fuck.
Still, even at low fucking volume, the essential fucking harshness still comes fucking through. In fact, the Harshnoise At Low Volume Test or HALT, as demonstrated by my colleague here Professor Blumpy, is I think often a good measure of the brute power of the shit. Or, I mean to say, the brute fucking power of the fucking shit. You fucking fuck.
The eight tracks are collected mainly from a handful of relatively low-run 7 inchers, indexed in order of release (and presumably of recording date). This latter was a good move. Throw on a random piece of Enceph from the last few years and the timestamp is hard to spot. Here the sense of development through chronology is clear, and welcome.
The earliest work has all the grisly scars of the Enceph of the moment- harsh, spastic, jagged, pointed, high energy ripping textures, metal junk spew, looped percussive stutter, stop motion balance, unhinged by brutal scorch attacks shrieking across spectrum. As the album progresses, excrement gets harsher, sharper, smellier, more precise, more pointed, ever more rigorous and exacting of obsessively meticulous focus. A quick run through then. Professor Blumpy?
Er, ahem. Thank you, Slutbag. Just a moment please while I consult my notes. "Molested For Life." Mm-hmm. Presumably an existential statement on the cogent ethos of the noiseperv. It is my stated opinion that this is the most raw of the Surgical Mods, incoming mechanized loop quickly obliterated by rapidly panned junk-spew spasticisms, ripping simultaneously in every direction, to open into widened field of electrified scorch. That's the first twenty-five seconds. Proceed now to massed junk clusters hammering away at the edges, soon to occupy center stage before veering off onto open-ended acoustic-cum-junk stutter. At a critical juncture, mournful acoustic fingerwork sets off a high-pitched, needle-like, singe. Note too the decisive drop into echoing bong chamber, trash smashed and compacted with all brute force. For further discussion of the critical aspects of this and the following three tracks, I would ask that you refer to my previous study,
"Tinpot Shit-Pails Hurled All Over The Room, Ripping Holes In Filthed-Out Distortion Walls".
"Spastic Emotions" drizzles in scraggly dirtfields, blasts open in epileptic scorchfits, shrieks in metal bashed L-R clambering. A generous and diverse array of raw material appears to have been commissioned; refer here to the aforementioned tinpot shit-pails. True to title, the pacing is consistently inconsistent. Those less qualified are therefore advised to steer clear of close study, to minimize the risk of being reduced to spastic gibbering mess. As it is, please see our good friend Slutbag. Any questions? Moving right along. Brief cracks are are roughly prized open to admit rapid-panned junk-scree, soon swallowed up in more cleanly filthed fuzz-belch. Ultimately, the keen ear for scrambling expectation drives monolithic, extended, wet, grey-tinged, machine buzz, dragging on and on, and on. Delicious, slathering. Slurp. Dry humping loop-thump, out.
"Auto-Induced Manical State" immediately ups the stakes, new gear- or new skills- evidently in play. Much more comfortable interactions with open spaces are afforded, widened stereophonic effects privileging more painstaking and considered heaving of overbilged junk-splatter, sucker punches just that critical degree heavier, hurtful, impactful. Somewhat in keeping with the methodology first expounded in Spastic Emotions, a ground down and brittle texture study consumes a solid half portion to grind things out to bilge-walled finish. "Neurological Failure" originally appeared on the opposite side of the same 7-inch and while every bit as hurtful, is also, per title, a gibber-inducing spastic mess. At no point is the listener permitted reprieve from the frantic hurling of shit-pails across the pan. While I would hesitate to describe this as texture study, there are a good number of interesting, deadened, filth-textures introduced and explored, none of them for more than an instant or two, but all of them intrinsically linked to the essential, full-bore, hurtcore.
The next two tracks also originally occupied opposite sides of the same platter. Once again the stakes are raised, so high this time, in fact, that the essential achievement is nothing short of- CUM ALERT!- ahem. The Essential achievement here is nothing short of fucking awesome. If you will excuse the digression, "Body Fluids" are needed to- SOUNDS FOR BUTTPHONE!- I say, if I may. "Body Fluids" are needed to, um, lubricate this incredibly dry rush of pure HARSH. Would you excuse me? Slutbag, please, settle down. Moving on. Though principally of the raw, ripped and scorching electronic persuasion, a considerable quantity of blown out junk-scraps are violently bashed about the field, feeding an encroaching sense of considered discombobulation. That discombobulation reaches its zenith in "Moaning Sex", which could well be the winner. What's that? Oh, thank you for your concern. Slutbag has been, um, subdued for the remainder as I'm afraid it may not otherwise end well. Consulting my notes here. Introductory ear-bleed singe-waves explode in dizzying swarms of multi-pronged angular excitement, brief acoustic interludes engaging feedback-tweaked screechers. Total bung-rupture via dis-sheveled low-end turd-burgle, shredded metallic gristle rebounding off fractured enclosure, large meaty crunch-chunks breaking off and hurtling through craggy, distorted, spaces to output: pure fire.
Rather than fight fire with fire, a relatively puritanical departure in "Living On The Edge", the longest entry and the only one previously unreleased. Comes out the gate swinging, hyper-spastic hailing and blasting. But soon the deferral to fairly steady-on, brute force type, crunch textures. These textures are spread out and broken, sporadically, into fat flatulent chunks, frequent un-centered incursions un-hinging the nerves and fraying any sense of balance. Thus the in-delicate balance, on the edge, to be savagely choked by razor-sharp, razor'd raw, razor wires of twisted metal and grit, gasps for air thick with palpable tension. Persuasive. Punishing. Perfect set-up to the inner war to end all inner wars.
"My Inner War". No doubt. Within moments any lingering hope of stability, previously eked out On The Edge, has been violently expunged, spasmodic surgically spliced surges of epileptic, apoplectic, frenzy throwing a veritable encepha-load of discombobulation through mangled pain factory of frenetic, herkily-jerked, essence. Harsh, pointed, incisive. Needle-like focused fury. In a way, fairly puritanical follow-up to the puritanical predecessor as previously pronounced, plenty of brute force type crunch texture to spice up proceedings even as the rough-edged metal-pronged glistening lacerations razor through the storm, unending hail of hack splack crack and smack. Much as I hate to delight in other people's misery, I can't help but hope the war has only but begun. Thank you.
