V.A. - Someone Wake The Maid It's Time To Kill The Butcher
The Japanese / Texan (+ 1) Noise Treaty. That's what I wanted to call it. But the title they went with is pretty okay, too. So yes, same old story. Poor bugger gets caught, again, favoring the hired help with choice slab of primo uncut um product, pays the ultimate price. Wait, hold your cleavers cause I've got another great title here for ya: The Hasegawan (+1) / Other Noisean Treaty. (Those seeking assistance trying to think up Real Good names for their comps are encouraged to inquire herein.)
Hasegawa certainly dominates the first side, though he's got several different names. The first name, Hiroshi Hasegawa, plumbs the depths of Hades, an odd title given the project's tendency to reach for the heavens but not so odd once the atypically erratic- if firmly gripped- herking and jerking starts to sever skull from spine. At a key juncture, voice-ignited lightning-scathe blasts straight through psych-tinged reverb hiss, like Darth Vader taking a very painful shit around lightsaber stuffed halfway home. Still the expected whitewashed tumbling blaze cycling and searing, in more or less straight line, to requisite stratospherical bliss.
The second Hasegawa, codenamed Angel Body Import, duly tries to out-Hasegawa the Hasegawa, to out-Astro the Astro Man. Do they succeed? Well, you'll get no heresies from me. But pretty fuggin luscious lines on this sensuous sweety. Slow sultry build of reverberant whitened sheets, licking languidly through the cool echoing caress of deep sunk chromium-plated rocket chambers, heaving and swelling in massed waves of monumental roar 'n shimmer. At their outer limits a threat to scorch the skies, but then to rein things in oh so deliciously at the brink. What a fucking tease.
Prof Hasegawa's Psyche Class 101 continues courtesy Leecher, subtle bass-buffered softies progressively harshed and ill-controlled via ill-coherent belches of curdling grind-strangle. A rather sudden rush into some fairly nasty severities and perhaps the first inkling, if that damn maid ever shows, that that butcher is in for some seriously harsh attention. By the time all the squealing layers come into their full and ugly-mugged fruition, buckling and shuddering in filthed and furious disarray, we have admittedly taken some leave of the Hasegawa, setting things up for the +1.
This next project may have little in the specific to do with Texas or Japan, but is probably still worth remarking on. Collapsing metals clank and stammer- echoing with perhaps the faintest of nods to Hasegawa- as a forested thicket of strangulated grit-kernals crumbles about the perimeter. At choice junctures a slather-voiced scorch-bristle or two punches straight through, massed layers duly acquiring roughly contorted densities before the heaving mangleage-a-trois buckles under pressure, the junk-scrap attacks getting noticeably violent and out of hand there. Call it remarkable or just goddamn weird.
P.O.V., aka The Final Hasegawa, takes a page from the Leecher book, accelerating aggressively toward an Absolute Mass of absolutely obliterating scorchout. The requisite whitened sheets abound, lustily piling on in a full and determined clusterfuck of competing shriek and blister. This is one of them beauts where the listener is invited to attend to the arched and sweeping periphery even as more bruted incisions drill straight through the center of the skull. The perfect and all-consuming end to the Hasegawa, 'holes left to desperately flash at their rotten limit.
Side Other Than Hasegawa's got two Japanese projects duking it with three Texans. Texan 1st, aka Scathing delivers more of that seething, searing, scalding scorch. The shit, is hot. Actually this particular shit's also got plenty P.O.V.-esque white-sheeted blisternment rushed into the raging scree, so at some level perhaps to suggest a perceptible deference to Hasegawa, like why mess with a good thing? But nah, the shit's too vicious, too frenzied, drilling with too much driven intensity, deep deep into the harshwhorecore to admit but a single exceedingly fleeting moment's consent to breath free, the 'holes well and truly butchered, like where's that fucking maid?
Kazehito Seki channels RHY Yau in an unhinged-out-the-fricken-gourd, or better, unhinged-in-the-fricken-gourd, burn-it-till-you-puke, squeegee twizzle. Start. Stop. Choke. Hawk. Pah-too- er, pardon me...apparently recorded live with a "Good PA" in Buffalo NY. Completely lives up to the self-stated manifesto published in the liner notes: I believe in GOD-crossed-out-MY AESTHETIC...ever panic, just play. Dude sounds like he was having a panic attack live and in the flesh, but it was probably just something stuck in his throat. For fucksake Buffalo, you people just stand there and watch? Any fucker clap and it's time to play Fist, meet Face. The new poster boy for Vapo Cool.
Then a wee bit 'o gentrification per the Elder Texan, flushed purple and bleating in distressed sub-ambient frieze. Observe as Richard Ramirez takes his sweet old time, flopping out the Backroom Prize and ever-so-eloquently shoving the shit home, plunging with a firm and single-minded pressure into hazy, deadened machine burial ritual: murked wheedle 'n fizz slowly ascending through grim, electrified, steely-faced buzzing, scraping along the dense and unyielding assemblage, to resolve, finally in clustered singe-bleed of monolithic redwall.
Mo*Te's So Fucking LSD is about as Other Noisean as you could want. There's definitely more than just LSD in there. Starts with a straight-ahead beat before sharp uptake of gaseous bong-chambers envelopes a stuttered boiler-room clunk 'n tremble, exhaling in uneven blurts of alternately flatulent butt-huff and choked-whistling dog-slobber. Steady gradations of singed warble-bleed punctuated with wide-panned electro-jitter and muffled dumpster thud. The dumpster thud gradually starts to dominate, distort, flatulate, briefly entertain possibility of going it harsh, nice phat ka-BLEEWY, end, like to hell with the maid, what in the fuck was that?
With flashes of Mo*Te still echoing in the brainpan, who who better to succeed than A Fail Association. Heard they were playing this at the recent stateside street protests. A little faux rhythmic drama to get the blood pumping, cut to wide-bodied pinging and keening, cut back again to the drama, rhythms getting badgered and buffeted by whittled midrift shizzle-snort. Then. Enter the maid. Nylon'd knee to the neck and the suffocations start to crowd in. Harsh, HEAVY, uncompromising, short but far from sweet, like, gurgle seriously urk man gluglughgh, it's chck-xss Hard...To fucking Brea-
