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Pieces – Pieces 12" + c30
Kakerlak, Redneck, Oscillating Innards. That's more sound than ought rightfully be permitted to occupy a single point in space-time. Sound, big fat raging masses of it, truckloads, boatloads, buttloads, densely layered, violent, abrasive, to inundate and overwhelm the senses, the sensibilities, to blot out the sky, the earth, the 'holes, the reason, the being. Hell, cram in hole enough of Le Shit and you may well blot out the noise itself. Well, okay, I'm probably getting carried away.
There ought at least to be little question as to the mastery of form being wrought. First of all, White Centipede Noise says so. Second, I don't need a second. But if that were desired, here's Sam McKinlay:
KEEP INDUSTRIAL OUT OF HARSH NOISE
That's the kernal of it. Inside the big box specially designed to contain all them fat raging sound masses, a somewhat elaborated iteration of the "possibly controversial ideas" on display. I'm not getting into it, but regardless of how you may feel about a less potentially abrasive re-presentation of recognizably domestic sound, it is hard to resist the sheer power and timing resulting in the masterful avalanches, subtle peaks, falls, and overwhelming crunching of le shit. Resisting here again the urge to flop out the "academic" descriptor, but it's hard to deny the insanely focused attention to the most elementary of harsh particles, diving deep, deep, into textural study of the most abrasive intricacies of scorch, crunch, and sphinct-rupture. Densely clustered angularity blown out and shattered and into tiny, twitching, bits. Pieces.
Pieces, the twelve inch incarnation, dates from a single 2014 session, origins about which it's probably best not to speculate. Misery loves company and misery loves noise. Especially harsh noise. With some extra despondency on the side. But no, that's a bit harsh. Net results are far too exuberant, far too vicious, delighting far too much in their straight-for-the-throat sphinct-choking furies. Slathering orgies of all-out crunch-`splosive ear-trauma, laying waste to the foundations, indelicately scooping out noisebrain, splattering against the wall, and staying there, brutally smooshed, for the duration. Now you know how one of Professor McKinlay's ballet slippers feels.
The initial blackened crunch-bludger makes it clear where we are headed: nowhere, fast, shattered bits and pieces poking out at insane angles, choked blurts and gristles burnt raw in the strangling heat. Halfway through the A side and a marked effort to smear the dis-semblage with oscillating sludger-flood of whitewashed seethe-tremble, but of course no clear winner is apt to emerge from the agitating clusterfuck competing for attention. Hilariously apposite, a break precisely when the attention is most focused on where in fuck this is going. The B, therefore, kicks off at almost opposed angles to the A, wash of drilling blister-scorch fairly hacking at dry, grit-iron, shredwalls, even as the sludge-rumbling outliers threaten to crumble in to crash the party. This actually does happen at a critical juncture, just when a searing series of scorch-slathers is cleared to win the way. In the climactic ending moments, a brief flatline to signal push for total slitting of singularity, end.
Pieces, the c30 incarnation first coalescing circa 2012, delivers the goods in more straight-forward, live-through-the-amps fashion. Here room acoustics get in on the action, and with them a more open-aired, clearly delineated, rumble-heavy perspective. Feedback-flecked metallic screech takes advantage of the open airs to soar high above the low-lying, densely packed, thunder-surge, midrange micromovements swallowed up in the tightly-regulated rush, voiciferously voiced harshvoices lending their bung-curdled urgings. Those of nominally righteous conviction may perceive in the immediacy a more physical dimension, not to mention a more pure and unfettered commitment to shredding hole. Certainly, in the immediate afterburn, more likelihood of causing in the aural passages the permanent damage they more than likely crave.
I'll say it: the c30 sounds less visionary, if you will, than the 12" successor. Or at least, less clearly to be perceived as envisioning of dedication to going to that other-other level. (The deluxe format with McKinlay dissertation wouldn't hurt perceptions). Put otherwise: c30- Alright let's make some fucking noise. Twelve-inch- Alright we've made some fucking noise. What have we learned? PAY ATTENTION SLUTBAG. ...um sorry? Where was I? Oh right. Well, less visionary, perhaps, but no less potent. Perfect complement, in fact, to-
CLASS DISMISSED.
Digest spew
No academics we, just supreme examplars of power through knowledge and study. Pieces, the c30, is an almost perfect encapsulation of everything ever to be needed from sound, artistic and otherwise. Exceedingly dense, heavy, harsh, rich in texture, relentlessly drilling straight through skull with all requisite force and damage, no let ups no bullshit no question as to the edumucatedness on tap. But that can all take a fat flying leap when the twelve inch hits the noise fan, smack dab in the kisser, meaty impact resonating in the surprisingly rough, ripped, ragged chokes of dry-shredded blurt and gristle, burnt raw in the sphinct-strangling heat, shattered fractals, pieces, poking out at insane angles, the learn-ed sages of crunch-'splosive ear-trauma elevating to the next level by diving down, deep, to the elementary core, harsh particles savagely ruptured in the violently dis-shevelled abrasion.
