See bottom of this post for digest commentary.Violent Shogun – Taste Our Japanese SteelSomeone should tell the shogun to take better care of his steel. Corroded, crusted, spotty, growing brittle at the edges. Quite the earsore I'm afraid, with... yes there it is, distinctly noisome smack of rot. Mm-hmm. Frankly, if you're going to invite people to sample the shit, a range of vital maintenance measures would clearly merit attention. Start with the storage options. This particular specimen comes housed in recycled tape featuring on Side 2 the BBC's Alistair Cooke. No help there.
Still, with reference to the more recent
Rot, one might be forgiven for feeling this were all as intended, seeming, incredibly, to celebrate the gravest of ferric afflictions, decayed tape only underscoring the slow burnt fidelity of dry-shredded rust-sputter reaming aural passages raw. And into already inflamed tensions comes the shogun, driving home this rather nasty wedge, twisting a few times for good measure, tortuously dragging ill-kempt innards out. Thirty seven minutes worth of straight-through-gut skewer squirk 'n wrench
Under normal circumstances I'd put it down to the violent nature, but then we are to understand this as
"(the shogun's) love declaration to Jaako Vanhala and Hal Hutchinson". My initial response was to whip out selections from the above indicated objects of ardour, ostensibly for study and contrast (but actually because, like, what the hell). As paean to the greats, a purpose would already be well and served. The palate duly registers the rougher strains of Hutchinsonian metal-whanging-on-metal. But not to sell anything short. Neither does this try to ape the form nor challenge the supremacy. Rather the shogun takes the gift and offers...une perspective japonaise unique.
Descriptors may include rough, raw, ragged, shredded, not so much brutal as brutish. Brutist. Two relatively brief intervals of brute harsh amid leisurely exploration of wide panned acoustic scrap texture. TNB aren't mentioned but in the passages of relative quiet a certain Changez Les Blockeurs-eque introspection, hefty iron husks dragged in protest across cratered concrete floors, dishing ye olde industrial strength leavenings in more than ample measure.
I will say this for the side-long study in close mic'd junk metal abuse: it is measured. The pacing considered and sure. There is even a perceptible narrative arc to the piece, a marked tendency to skew baroque. Not content simply to leave the corroded scraps to whang where they may, a course is charted, elaborating with some deliberation through subtle gradations of crest and sigh, shove and scrape, clank and clunk.
The first movement escalates rapid-like to fairly full-up mass of full metal racket. Corroded and crusted full metal racket. Full metal racket pocked with putrescent scraps of ill-savory steel whanging their crustiest. Scrapes, scours, brief belching fits of irate clobbering clang. All of it backlit by surprisingly tasteful hush of ghostly backwashed drainbience. From this point a solid several minutes harshening up loudening up, reaching the much-anticipated eye-watering levels before suddenly crashing out, depleted of steam, drained of whack, percussive spunk and stammer sputtering to sustain itself through flaccid echoing chambers lolling disconsolately at third and then fourth remove, lengthy passage very gradually reduced to near non fidelity.
Then. The teeniest glimmerings of life. Lingering tinpot dong-loop browbeaten on the back of steadily backwashed drainbient distorto-clonk. Sudden flare-up, and there it is. BooOOOiiing. All out force, and damage. Noisome. Overpowering. The stench of it. The harsh of it. Jee-eezus. Sphinctors contract, eyes water, trousers tent. Well and deep into the screechy scorch zone, feedback rushing to join steel-on-steel clusterfuckfest. Not entirely unexpected, but quite entirely necessary I'm afraid. Particularly for hardons of the, um, harsh-headed inclination. Regret to inform said inclination that the shogun seems disinclined to keep it up for longer than needed to prove his point. Yes, shogun, it really is a big one. Yes. A fat honking one. A whopper. Yes, thank you shogun. We get it. Not sure you need to rub it everyone's face.
So to the abrupt halving of the mast, not so much thoughtful and introspective as availing of the opportunity to hear oneself think. Here the harsher inclinations are tempered with still quite robust and full flavored denouement, no sudden moves, fat chunks of filthy festering steel whanging about right where I can see em, echo chamber flushed with backwashed streams of yellow effluent, only really petering out in the closing minute or so. Quite the tour de force if the shogun may say so himself. Or as they say in Japan ｢私のホバークラフトはうなぎで満たされています｣. Definitely an acquired taste, but one I'm beginning to crave. How's about we go back to my place bouncy bouncy?
Digest spew:
Violent Shogun – Taste Our Japanese Steel"My love declaration to Jaako Vanhala and Hal Hutchinson." Ain't that sweet. Not to mention just that measure tart, ferric degradation rendering rusted out and mouldering the ill-kept supply of acoustic scraps on hand. Wild, unkempt reams of corroded crusted steel scrap whanging into well-worked sphinct-holes, fenced in by distinct baroque sensibility. Un vrai travail d'amour, in all the wrong places, for all the right reasons. Metal whanging on metal. What more is there in life?
