Started by GEWALTMONOPOL, December 15, 2009, 09:30:59 PM

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WORTH - Hidden In Christ CS (Self Abuse, 2019)
Like unscrewing and bending your way through a gigantic machine of sorts. The vast grey interior of a Christ machine. Cogs ticktocking, oil dripping, steam pipes gushing. Like getting lost in a huge level in the first Quake game after all the fiends and lobotomized grunts have been slain, trying to find an exit, or a way further in perhaps. Flashbacks to sleep deprived red teenage eyes, a brain turned to mush and grades in steep decline. A small price to pay for such a trip, I'd say!


Quote from: Baglady on September 07, 2020, 12:33:02 AM
WORTH - Hidden In Christ CS (Self Abuse, 2019)
Like unscrewing and bending your way through a gigantic machine of sorts. The vast grey interior of a Christ machine. Cogs ticktocking, oil dripping, steam pipes gushing. Like getting lost in a huge level in the first Quake game after all the fiends and lobotomized grunts have been slain, trying to find an exit, or a way further in perhaps. Flashbacks to sleep deprived red teenage eyes, a brain turned to mush and grades in steep decline. A small price to pay for such a trip, I'd say!

As someone who still regularly plays the original Quake, this has to be my next purchase.


Been listening to quite a lot of Angerfist today. I know dance music is a curse here, but hear me out, the melodies are fucking good. Layers upon layers of slightly detuned synth melodies makes for a very thick, total melodic bliss. Cheesy? yes, digital? very much so, but I wouldn't mind hearing someone making noise bases on such melodies. It's not all good though, the kicks are very hollow sounding and there is an absolute lack of bass, the 'I am really though' samples can be a bit much and I wouldn't be surprised some jacked up Italian guy will come knocking my door soon asking for pills.
Straight murkin' riddim blud, absolute vile gash


The Death Project Volume Two compilation tape on Lor Teeps, from around 1988. Comes with big size [A4?] inserts / booklet in hard paper, with info, texts, art from the projects / label. All of which seem they are from Holland, and most were unknown to me, when Volume One has enough familiar. That's not a problem as long they prove to be good, and some are very good, but with very limited other appearances / releases, if any. Bands caught my biggest attention are : Dust And The Minds, Forbidden Photographs, Friends In Low Places. Material is forms of 80s industrial, from 'rock-ish' to experimental [Dont know but if any project today was coming with tracks like Hagzisse's for example and other -seemingly- simple and easy stuff, i would reject it. But in those old tapes almost everything is accepted by me and appreciated.] - Good time, good tape !

Also spend some time with The Rita / Dog Holocaust CS [Utmarken] the last days. When i had first listened to this i liked The Rita side better. Now i cant resist to the massive energy and volume of Dog Holocaust. Live air-recordings. Imagine that room like a black hole shallowing the audience.
"ἀθάνατοι θνητοί, θνητοὶ ἀθάνατοι, ζῶντες τὸν ἐκείνων θάνατον, τὸν δὲ ἐκείνων βίον τεθνεῶτες"


Quote from: ConcreteMascara on September 02, 2020, 07:00:06 PM
Raime - If Anywhere Was Here He Would Know Where We Are 12" + Hennail 12" + Quarter Turns Over A Living Line 2xLP - Blackest Ever Black 2010, 2011, 2012

Quarter Turns over A Living Line is a great album. Very well created moods and good sound. I somehow pair Neugeborene Nachtmusik with them as "dance music" with influences more in avantgarde and old and obscure things than in straight techno lineage.

My playlist has been this for the past week or so.
Black Leather Jesus - Crossburnt
Nicely all over the place release. It's got metal junk, feedback, guitar, weird samples and even oscillators. Very good stuff.

7MON -  Conscience Will Not Acclimatise
For how much I like 7MON this is along with the split 7" with Slaughter Of the Innocents are the only releases I have. Even though it seems redundant I've been enjoying listening to this from the CD with both the rough and original mixes of both of the compiled releases back to back.

Cazzodio - Ad Negantem Usum Significationes
Rhythmic industrial from Italy. Not as good as the 2CD compilation or the full-length on Malignant but still a good one. Pretty bare bones and vocal driven.

Screloma - Dirt
More rhythmic industrial. Sometimes it kind of reminds me of Linekraft. Also has a great way of turning points that sound like hot mess into a very well composed and even musical sounding moments. Have to listen to this more.
Edit: And thanks for the trade again Frank!

Edgar Froese - Aqua
Been playing this constantly to get our new dog to sleep and it works every time. I also have to try to learn how to do something resembling THAT lead synth sound that Froese just runs into ground on these early releases in the best way possible.


Pleasure Fluids - Show No Mercy LP (Breathing Problem Productions)

I have the "gutter editions" tape (not sure if it was called like that) as well, but it's fantastic to have this also on vinyl. All TF/PE releases should get this treatment.
Whoever wants to do this - yess, please! I'm in.

Bloated Slutbag

See bottom of this post for digest commentary

Mo*Te – An Idle Complaint
With Mo*Te, you're pretty much guaranteed a trip. You will go places, some familiar, some not, some at some remove from expectation. First though, it might be worth checking off the expectations. Heavy psyche overtones. Whitened scathe etchings. Arched drone frieze. Measured, cyclical, drawls. Trippy shizzle, all check. The remove is in the off-kilter convergence of elements, and the just as off-kilter elaboration. An Idle Complaint to be sure, but-


-uh, sorry there, just had to get that out of the system. One thing I wanted to suggest, is that Mo*Te would seem to have calmed down a bit. The project was never the most spastic even at the most off-kilter of times, but in recent days the 'holes report more through-thought feel of deliberation. The materials are assembled. The vision is in place. And then it's just a matter of floating on through the trip'alodious landscape, never to rush the moment, nor to subject it to the rigors of the editing deck, letting the sound casually carry things forward, sleek, sultry, silky smooth. And perhaps in there somewhere is to be gained entry to the off-kilter'd-ness. The sense of plan clearly worked out, but that the planner is completely open to the spanners and deviations of the moment, to readily go places at some remove from expectation, to literally live the noise of it.

Darakata Me builds slowly and steadily, depth-charged rhythmic regularity underpinned by faintly hollowed hum. The hollowed hum soon fills out with steely-pitched alarm wail, frigid oscillations strangling the rhythms in their repetitive grip, freezing the mood in drizzled spirals of grey, bleary-eyed, frizzle. Fighting the freeze is a tonality, a soothing electric blanket of smudged and bleeding tonality, fuzzy-wuzzy warmths tickling the earbone, carefully navigating a narrow path between fogs of singed drone and more roughed up flecks of char-burnt harsh. The depth-charged rhythms make a very brief return, then bow out to flattened loops of downmixed wall-banging, carefully drawing the tensions into frozen spirals that may or may not rip into the expected harshraptures, delayed distorto-blurts doing little to calm the now quite frazzled nerves. In the closing interval, high-end keens to the celestial fringe precipitate due roughening of the bandwidth, as though to finally make good on the harsh promise, but, no.

Incidentally, there's a second track to reckon with. Only the most minuscule break before Bokyaku comes on, strong. A lot more active, much fuller in body, the aforesaid promise– aka HARSH– being made good. Interestingly, though, the essential materials are pretty much identical to those of the opening ditty, but just wound up into quite fevered states of enraptured dis-tether. Kind of where you might imagine things would eventually have gone, but with the whole middle section of build-up judiciously excised. The opening moment's got the jitters, juiced up electrodes dancing along sweat-flecked pate, electronic brain storms coming on in deranged waves of epileptic fury. Once power gets jacked, to the max, the blisses are pretty full on, refusing in the event to hold steady, constantly jerking from buzzed oscilla-sizzle to straight-ahead rips of piercing scathe-drillage, celestial screes meeting shrill alarm squeals caught between rougher crunches of raw-mangled invective. Call it what it is, fucking awesome. In the closing minutes the raw-mangled crunchings reveal in their submerged breakage the bare dregs of that depth-charged rhythm, downshifting to a drawn out drawl, slowly cycling back to the start, signaling flip to B.

Ame No Hi wastes little time in building to harsh, serving straight-lined graywalls of flattened purity. Once again electrified buzzings prickle along the surface, bristling static charges diving deep to resolve in sultry fuzzy-wuzzies. Sustained, wailing, electro-bleat cycles coax harshdrone saturations from deceptively thin reeds of drawn-out shiver. At the shriller extremes, one may surmise, there is little question as to the earhole damages being inflicted, but it all just feels so niiiiice. A very convincing approximation of the sound of getting, very methodically, teasingly, electrocuted. Meanwhile, irregular intervals of abbreviated bass-thumping seek to ensure the nerves their share of jitters. Well, take me, nervous fucking wreck, coasting on the frazzled fringe, zoned out, zoning in, electrified walls flattening the field among straight-lined drills to the deliciously shivering core.

Kasukana is a deep, rich, mahogany, burgundy buzzing electrocutions gently caressing sleekly pliable scathewalls. In drops a surprised clanking of acoustic metal scraps, mostly obscured, occasional sharp peaks poking holes in the fuzzy-wuzzied calm, more vigorously hammered slams distorting the percussive force. Twin smolder lines calmly coast along opposite ends of the channel pan, their pleasant undulations coursing through more raw-bled firestorms. In snake whispery tongues of measured tssktssktssk, semi-rhythmic bludgeon-loop frequently disturbed by rough patches of acoustic cantanker. This, is a winner, and a weirder, successfully weirding out attentions not quite sure of where they ought be planting themselves, but in the final moments at least revealing the brightly broken contours of chiseled glass and metal, bludgeon-loop duly tssk-tssking the proverbial aha-moment.

At last, a sweet little surprise in Kuzudarake (Remix/1995), featuring, per dadadrumming dot org, a new mix of the very first Mo*Te to assault the 'holes, like, waaay back in them golden 90s. Yeshir, thems was the days. Here it may be worth mentioning that the original c10 from which this is taken also appears somewhere amongst the overtones of Life In A Peaceful New World, which, as any sorry sod will submit, is some absolutely ear-ssential shiiiiiiiizzle. Kuzudarake sounds, to these earholes, nothing like anything on LIAPNW. So whether that is the remix talking or what is something to invite repeat auditioning. Y'know, in the advocacy of science. (Major academic journals have already reported interest, so stay tuned for more on this.) So yes, unsurprisingly, this here's some kinda scorcher, flattened white blister-sheets ripping with unvarnished, unswervingly nasty, insistence. Some surprised entries of legit vocal spasm propel fast-paced storms of tightly active gristle-surge, even admitting that rarity of the Mo*Te MO– a few drills of legit feedback shriek. In other words, much more raw and raging than anything I can specifically conjur to mind from LIAPNW, but of course further research is required. Unworthy of mention perhaps that, in the advocacy of science, the amplitude was duly cranked, to the motherfucking max, and I am not at all pleased to report that the 'holes are, once again, utterly fucked.

Digest spew:
Someone weaker than you should beat you and brag
And take you for a drag


Edge of Decay - Riistettyjen Antologia (CD, Aussaat): 2nd album from this by now well known Finnish PE/Industrial Noise unit. Maybe a bit less rough sounding than their older stuff, but very good nonetheless.

Citalopram Shunyata/North Central/Rotat (CD, Hiisi/Daddy's Entertainment): All very good, Citalopram Shunyata never disappoints, though I think this are some of his best tracks for this project so far. Didn't know what to expect from North Central, but it's not very harsh noise, but rather going into the "atmospheric", creepy direction, good as well. Rotat isn't my favorite project, though I have some releases, this sounds a bit different, less low end sounds and some vocals in one of the tracks, first time I hear that. Pretty lengthy CD (over 60 min).

holy ghost

Sissy Spacek - Featureless Thermal Equilibrium CD - GREAT CD with Jay Randall on vocals. 25 min of bass/drum/vocals noisecore, lots of start/stop, lots of blasting..... the first time I saw SS they had Mike DuBose on vocals and this is a really similar trip. A++++++++ exactly what I want from SS - that's not to say I don't appreciate their other incarnations/sounds but sometimes I just want the fuckin' grind man.....

The Cherry Point - Live Hell CD - excellent loud 3 track scorcher. The final track with The Rita I had not heard before. Top notch stuff. Great layouts on these.

Bloated Slutbag

See bottom of this post for digest commentary

Mo*Te / Worth – split c30 (Cipher)
Mo*Te / A Fail Association – split c20 (Dadadrumming)

In November of last year, the person behind Cipher posted something that only recently caught my eye– "Worth 'Blinder' LP, a worthy(!!) successor to top Japanese fare of the 90s a la Mo*Te." Caught my eye as in, what in fucksname is he talking about? Is he fucking...all right, that's it. I'll show him. I'll spend the whole fucking week immersed in Worth and Mo*Te and nothing but! Yeah, that'll fucking learn him. (It was, as weeks go, pretty good.) Well now with Worth & Mo*Te trading sides of a svelte thirty minuter it seems the deal is even more thoroughly sealed, at least where the person behind Cipher is concerned.

Where Cipher the label is concerned it's always worth commenting on the packaging: picture perfect homage to top Japanese fare of the 90s a la Mo*Te / Cracksteel. Real history buff, this Cipher. Brain Storm (Uncut-02, 1996) kicks off with Cracksteel's Northern Brainstorm and follows on the flip with Mo*Te's Southern Brainstorm. This time it's Mo*Te with The East Brainstorm and the natural inclination to compare 'n contrast. Like, holy hell this Cracksteel is hot! But this sidetrack is getting a tad sidetracked, so just pardon me for a moment whilst I cue up the correct track.

Okay, The Eastern Brainstorm. Like holy hell this Mo*Te is hot! Listening to these Brainstorms, Southern and Eastern, I'm getting why it had to be Hebi Like A Snake– onetime Stimbox imprint– that would bring Mo*Te, via the seminal Life In A Peaceful New World, to the broader attention of, at least, the (North) American harshnoise audience. Think searing harsh inundations with rich, warm, ambient psyche-overtones. The sort to which Stimbox would never have been averse, though if I recall correctly the man himself flat out rejected the ambient designation. If that is to be the case then perhaps it behooves me to point out that, once again, at no time will the name Hirsoshi Hasegawa come up. Nossir not once, not from me. I am, like, so done with name-checking Hasegawa. Fucking done with it! Oh, is my sidetrack getting sidetracked again? Must be the ozone going to the head. Well pardon me, time to stick the nose back in the Brainstorm business.

The Eastern Brainstorm: searing harsh electrified inundations with rich, warm, ambient psyche-overtones. More of the rich, warm, ambient psyche-overtones than they do on the Southern side, that's just how the Eastern Brainstorms roll! There are other related descriptors I will duly flop out, among them soft, sexy, sultry, wet whispered whitened washes of blue mood-ulations, glistening pink 'n purple in the hot, breathy, spaces. Deep down in the dark underbelly, undercurrents of slow throbbing wave action rhythmically drag attention out along elongated clusters of progressively glazed insinuations, simmering sparkles of crystalline pierce perfecting the picture of suave sophisticate reclining in cocoon-like hammock among lushly landscaped ecstasies of icy-smooth chill. 25 Unit 09 Day2 is hardly the one to mess with a winning formula, this time almost completely extracting all hint of harsh from the equation. Throbbed percolations of Brainstormesque electrified buzzings establish the perimeter, becalming massage therapies rising but mostly falling in continuous downward inclined susurration. An initial effort to thread the center with muscled blaze of whitehot scree quickly comes undone, sinews dissipating in steamy vapor trails. Just, chill. Immerse them harried nerves in zones of languid deceleration, static-charged fields of trembling bass-fuzzies, pleasingly smothering in their progressively weighty envelopments, softly sibilant exhalations expiring in the hazy distance. Now the throbbed percolations are channeling steadily from earhole to earhole, spiraling attention into blurred raspberries of tight-lipped asphyxiation.

Worth goes some distance in restoring, if not the harsh balance then certainly some degree of brute heft. Heavily distorted blurts of broken crunch particles immediately announce a more muscled attack, though these are not sustained but rather traded off with sharp searings of jugular-severing psyche-blaze, the dynamic contrast of elements set to contrary pacing that seems intended to throw focused listening off balance. At their rip-roaring fever peaks, the searings are plenty piercing, more than sufficient in completely undoing the mellowed manipulations of split-mate-san. Meanwhile, some ways in the background, more hushed backwash of arid acoustics suggests a certain depth in play. In many ways, Bushcraft Bug-Out consciously complements its Japanese half, a more fevered answer to calmly ambient overtones living on the flip, content to live in the perfect moment of perfectly raging whiteout. Women In Solipsis seems at first even more actively engaged in jugular removal, an impression that grows only more pronounced as the excited furies rage forth. There are even a few moments of processed vocal spastication ripping through the frenzy. In fact the full frenzy proper may be rooted in vocal-spastic, though the net expression outputs in dialog of continuously ruptured crumple-blurt. In the opening moments, crunched saturations rupture a wide bodied bounce of leisurely bopping bass belches. In come the whitened ascerbics and then the vocal spazz, and finally the essential gritty-edged blurt-scrunchings. The scrunchings cut in and out, stop paused in momentary stasis, sometimes driven to wall-like rumbling red, sometimes making way for more drilling bites and stabs. Never once does the pace relent, each pause but opportunity to freshen the aggravated assault on the aural cavities.

In his split with A Fail Association, Mo*Te continues to expound upon the gospel of cool and collected calm. So perhaps a good thing that AFA takes the flip, to ensure sound delivery of the brutal and filth-flavored nasty. This tape is not apparently officially being sold, but will spontaneously appear as a bonus when a certain lp is acquired from the source. So if you've got a problem with that, you know where you can take your idle complaint. Dadadrumming has been doing a lot of good of late, bringing prime cuts from the most Scathing of newscorchers through to the storied certainties of TEF, Stimbox and Richard Ramirez. See? Not one single mention of Hiroshi Hasegawa. This is a shorty but a goody, in the classic mold of assuage the 'holes on one side and blow the buggers out on the other.

With titles like Hush And Harsh and Chill Noise, it should be clear from where the 'hole assuaging is to be had. And no, just for the record, it's not Hiroshi Hasegawa. Mo*Te commences ceremonies in classic and classy fashion, with Harsh. Deep, bass-bottomed, bludger, seared open via whitewashed sheets of psyche-tinged salivation. The elaboration, however, is rather dour, ascending along curvaceous slides of lightly frosted undulation, engines slowly revving in the gloom, trying to get the motor running, loose-fit propeller wobbling ineffectually against flaccid traction, belt hanging loose, flapping against the casing. In due course, a groove catches, steady whirring accumulations setting off the hushed harsh, aka breathless seashell howl, severely pitched spirals spinning through droning orbits of grim, synchronized, wheeze. On to the Chill Noise, a meditative study in deep pitched rumble-throb, measured judders cycling evenly against regular swells of low-end burble. This could be an exceedingly chilled Brainstorm, multi-layered, full in body, rich in fluffy analog quiver, fuzzed expirations casually ambling along the fringe, the deepest bass gurgling and turd burgling winking through tight apertures of slightly burnt sphinct-chambers. Definitely more Chill than Noise in this luxuriant sputtering sprawl, stretched out to the outer reaches of inner space.

A Fail Association reaches deep within himself, or deep within his past, to conjure up some brute flalutent uglies, retching and lurching through tightly compacted crunchpiles. Perhaps taking inspiration from the closing ditty on Mo*Te's An Idle Complaint, County Road 1485 presents a hot 2020 re-work of pre-AFA efforts going all the way back to 2002. The opening moments are given to sharply metallic tin-can crinkling, exploding suddenly into thickly aggressive burls of curdled overload. After the sweet earhole massage-work of split-mate-san, this is positively rough, much more active and punishing in its continuously interrupted blurts and surges. So hardly all crunch all the time. Plenty of jagged knifings shredding through the thick, at their peaks slicing into abbreviated chirps of feedback shriek, lightning pacing leaving the hard-jerked sensibility with little upon which to latch. At other moments dense rumble-loads bear down on the outlying rips, driving face-first through mounds of crumbling sludge. The shit en masse just flies by, in too short order over and done with, poor abused earholes begging for more punishment but in better need of assuagement. Mo*Te will be happy to oblige.

Digest spew:

Mo*Te / Worth – split c30 (Cipher)
Mo*Te storms the brain with searing electrified inundations rich with warm, ambient, psyche-overtones. Psyche smeared in soft, sexy, sultry, wet whispered whitened washes glistening in the hot, breathy, spaces. Ultimately the psyche is driven deep down into undercurrents of slow throbbing wave action, rhythmically dragging attention out along elongated, lushly landscaped, clusters of icy-smooth chill. Soon the static-charged percolations are trembling in softly sibilant bass-fuzzies, spiraling into blurred raspberries of tight-lipped asphyxia.
Worth answers the sultry brainstorms with heavily distorted blurts of broken crunch particles, trading off with jugular-severing psyche-blaze streaking, the dynamic contrast of elements set to contrary pacing that rewards focused listening with progressively warped sense of dis-balance. In come the vocal spastics, driving dialog of continuously ruptured crumple-blurt and more gritty-edged ascerbics, repeatedly frozen in momentary stasis, flattened in rumbling reds, ripped apart in whitened bites and stabs.

Mo*Te / A Fail Association – split c20 (Dadadrumming)
Shorty but goody, in the classic mold of assuage the 'holes on one side and blow the buggers out on the other. Mo*Te ascends along curvaceous slides of lightly frosted undulation, engines slowly revving, loose-fit propeller wobbling ineffectually against flaccid traction, catching a groove of steady whirring accumulations, hushed harsh sending severely pitched spirals spinning through orbits of grim, synchronized, wheeze, then expiring in languid decelerations along the deepest bass fringe, gurgling through tight apertures, finally to release in luxuriant sputtering inner space sprawl.
A Fail Association explodes into thickly aggressive burls of curdled overload, continuously interrupted blurts and surges serving rough, lightning-paced, crunch-shred. Jagged knifings shred through the thick, abbreviated chirps of feedback shriek hard-jerked through dense rumble-loads, bearing down, hard, driving face-first through mounds of crumbling sludge.
Someone weaker than you should beat you and brag
And take you for a drag


SFÄR - Sprickor LP (Järtecknet, 2017)
Gustafsson (ALTAR OF FLIES) and Ottosson (BLODVITE) collaborating on what sadly seems to be the last Järtecknet release. They aren't too far apart on their own, but where Gustafsson has an affection for rural and intimate sounds, Ottosson has mostly worked with machine-like sounds of urban construction/destruction. It all cones together here. There are alot of spoken layers here which took me some time to get used to, same thing with the last Ättestupa album. They do make sense though, and add alot of context, although they might be lost on everyone who don't know Swedish (which might add a strangeness that I miss out on, come to think of it). Low key but intense album with some truly spellbinding moments (the almost Colley-esque first track on side B for instance). Grows and grows, this LP. Hope this wasn't a oneoff thing.


Quote from: accidental on September 25, 2020, 04:15:11 PM
NON - Physical Evidence (LP, 1982, Mute)
Im on my second copy of this. Unfortunately both copies filled with loud crackle and surface noise. To the extent that the enjoyment suffers. Supposed to be NM copies. Have i had bad luck or is the pressing shit? Love the album though. Thinking about trying a third copy? The closure give me vibes of early 90s Incaps, but this is ten years prior. Fantastic stuff.

I have a copy and never noticed any surface noise etc. My copy is from the pressing with STUMM 10 A₁ PN and STUMM 10 B₁ PN etched on the matrix.


BJNILSEN - Focus Intensity Power LP (Moving Furniture, 2018)
To me, BJ Nilsen has first and foremost been a sound wizard mastering other people's work (the Sewer Election - Blizzard Amplification set being the latest example). It's only during the last couple of years that I've delved into his own music (the Tape Dekay CD on Narcolepsia comes recommended!), and his contribution to the excellent Bidödaren compilation made me feel stupid; what have I've been ignoring/missing out on for so many years? So I picked up this LP for starters. Exquisite massive electronic drone of a warm vintage kind. Very evocative. Would have made a great soundtrack to one of the more chilling and sparse sci-fi movies of the 70's. A sensation of being completely alone in a very very vast and unfamiliar place. Eerie... Chop Shop, Joe Colley and Jim Haynes crosses my mind, but this is still something else, and in a league of its own. I'm quite stunned!

Bloated Slutbag

See bottom of this post for digest commentary

Facialmess & SICKNESS ‎– In The Face Of Uncertain Odds tape reissue (Kitty Play)
Messrs Sanderson and Goudreau have certainly come far, fast. Just the other day comes the rumor, like a one-two gut-punch, that both sirs' respective soundings into harsh cutup violence have been served with‎ an indefinite restraining order. Next thing you know thug-looped industrial-strength pate-pulverizers are sprouting up like...fucking...weeds, and meanwhile The SICK One goes full name, proper, on the heinie. You can't make this stuff up. Before that happens, in the face of uncertain odds, the two come as one and...make beautiful music together.

Well look, when I say beautiful I mean the harsh cutup violent stuff okay? Beautifully harsh, beautifully cutup, beautifully butt-rupturously viciously violent. And, tight. Tighter, possibly, than the SICK-Facial collab snuck onto Facial double-discer Pig Hydraulics. I mean, per discogs, this tape clocks in at about twenty-two minutes versus the thirty-five allotted for the pig. Leaner and quite possibly meaner, rapid-fire stutter-bursts rocketing across the pan, full spectrum full-force explosive fire, ducking into closely ranged rabbit-holes, sinking into attention-stealing moments of frozen loop-burgle, unloading and just hammering away with razor'd-sharp, pointedly hole-blowing, fury. The analytic mind wants to dissect the shit into okay here's the Facial here's the SICK but frankly analytic mind dearest go fuck yourself. Gut-punch the analysis, go full retard. Bask in ripped-to-shit sonics violently lunging 'n wrenching from 'hole-to-'hole. Yiiikes. But them's the punishments and them's the way it gotta be.

One thing I like, is the range of texture in the offing. There's some pretty crude 'n rude scumbag level shit in here, but also plenty of other level shit, more than plenty not quite as what I would have imagined from either project on its own. In the event, burnt-to-shit textural butt-rupture cuts through the entire tape, crystal clarity of shattered edges brightly piercing utterly smoked air-cavities, sufficient in their full-spectrum tether-snapping jerk-outs to throw even the most studied harshshnozz off the scent. A random guess might say that each is working through material supplied by the other. Another would suggest that legit effort was expended in endeavoring to complement sir counterpart. A third: a clean division runs down the flip, trading carefully spaced tug-n-release Facial spatter and hard-driven never-relenting SICK insistence. Er, so much for gut-punching the analysis.

Side A starts with the title track, tightly compacted scrunch-balls blowing holes through the center of the cratered silences, wider panned incisions and digressions running in marginally delayed counterpoint. Into the cracks slip slow worming rhythmic oscillations, snuffling among the fractured intervals, sucking up airs in anticipation of the next full-force hole-blowing attack. And the next full-force hole-blowing attack always comes due. Pause now for a moment as rhythmic snuffling underlines high-pitched ringing keens, sudden frantic biting nasties blowing apart the calm, metallic feedback nails hammering into looped bilge-based ker-chunk, to net an unnerved, genuinely spastic, discombobulation. At about the halfway point, let's call it track two, an irregular dialog starts to dominate, trading in the moment measured percussive thunk against unhinged sphinct-spasms of meticulously sliced 'n diced crunch-sputter flatulence, razor'd peaks like rusted nails punched straight through the eye socket, the dazed 'n confused focus puking guts in whirlwinds of frenetic apoplectic  frenzy.

Side B is cut-the-fuck-up, left right center, but with little apparent space between the cuts. The result is a full frontal assault that is very seldom given to relent, whip-lashing in rages of constant herk jerk mc'splerk. In the more frantic micromoments the shit is flying straight off the goddamn handle, vicious harsh purities breathing fire upon utterly scorched tracks. There are, nevertheless, a good few extended intervals of slow-looped bottom-chugged wobba-wobba, bellies flubbing along dribbling drainage pipe, drawing out the moment, upping tension, focusing attention on the inevitable scorched black spine-wrenchings exploding out the gate. There are, quite frankly, a shit-load of these, but they tend to cluster together among their upper-edged, break-neck, extremities, positioned just so, conspiring in their many and unmagnificent moments to blow yer fricken head off.

In the face of uncertain odds, out again with the lead descriptor: violent. First there's the correct and astute placement of elements, expertly torqued to mime the sense of careening wildly out of control– though so clearly anything but. There's also the rough, hardened, physical properties to the materials in play. The shit has a lot of heft to it, such that when it does– and often– careen wildly out-of-cum-in-to control the impact is that much more palpable. Symphonic brawls of bare-knuckled gut-punchery designed to reduce the remnants of quivering blubber to so much fleshly pulp. You can't make this shit up.

Digest spew:
In the face of uncertain odds, we will struggle to be ourselves. A herculean struggle to signify squat amid burnt-to-shit textural butt-ruptures, crystal clarity of shattered edges brightly piercing utterly smoked air-cavities, measured percussive thunks and bass-chugs teeing off against unhinged sphinct-spasms of meticulously sliced 'n diced crunch-splutter flatulence. At their upper extremities, razor'd peaks like rusted nails punch straight through eye sockets, dazed 'n mangled focus puking guts in whirlwinds of frenetic herk jerk mc'splerk, the correct and astute placement of elements expertly torqued to mime the sense of careening wildly out of control– though so very clearly anything but. Bare-knuckled brawls of symphonic– sphinct-phonic– fudge-punchery, a beautifully butt-rapturously vicious violence. So here's the analytic mind, demanding to dissect the shit into here's the Facial here's the SICK but frankly analytic mind dearest go fuck yourself. Gut-punch the analysis and go, go full retard. There is no light left that can illuminate your ignorance.
Someone weaker than you should beat you and brag
And take you for a drag


Alfarmania - Skracken
Candlelabrum/Suphuric Night 10"
Kudlaakh - Kudlaakh
ZSS - Live Medical Experiments