Incapacitants - Oxen Man's Uneasiness
Weird as fuck, by Incaps standards (which on some level prolly ain't sayin shit), I'd say at least 70-30 on the Mikawa end of the properly studio'd duo dispatched in the first three studies in dis ease, think Zouvrenee but in German. Track 4 counters with a twenty minute live attempt at restoring harshass integrity, basking in the afterglower of an unrepentantly cosmic Incapacitant, or two, buried bowels deep in some righteous turd-burgle-ya, flatulating up some fairly hefty o zone-depleted nose-hole penetralia type o zone. Said penetralia could be unimaginatively imagined as persuasively paired with, say, Savage Gospel, thus to huff the chuffed aftergusts of a Hasegawa, or three, willfully rocket shrining up a tempest. Will be getting a fair bit o replay as the ol' 'holes work to worm their way 'round the (relative) un-easiness of the studio splooge.
T. Mikawa - Cloud Carpet Bombing
Via No Beat Shit, Mr Hamilton/keraunograph recently talked up, in the most enthused of terms, the latest T. Mikawa solo joint, prompting me to immediately snap one up, so contagious certain gradations of enthusement would you not say. So here's me, now, having listened all of once or so and uh no surprises given the recent direction, supreme laser noise up the hidey hole, sounding nothing like anyone else, or shall we say blissfully unencumbered by concerns for where noise is supposed to be coming or going, at least from anyone not named T. Mikawa.
But that bliss, says me, is contagious. There were indications of this direction as early as Gyo-Kai Elegy, which was much praised at the time (and I believe is still). But once the mania set in, for the long haul, enthusiasms were noticeably dimmed, at least in some quarters, at least when these sorts of blissfully synthetic heresies were attached to Incapacitants. However, no less were there indications, particularly in Bloody, Innocent And Strategic (the last full length proper, circa 2014), of a profound desire to razor that blissfully innocent smile straight off your fucking face, and replace it with one much wider, redder.
I've sometimes suggested that on some level Mikawa, especially the later era Mikawa, may be very consciously picking up shards of fragments of where Monde Bruits left off. But, like, pissin hard. I'm willing to entertain the suggestion even more, at least today. Perhaps even more than the studio tracks in I, Noise, the earholes might legitimately reconfigure impressions of the intensely infested city of writhing synthetic zipper-wyrms as hyperdriven Psychosomatic Performance, better still hyperspasmic spirals of the Selected Noise Works, spastic, maybe, spasmic, certainly, stripping back sensibility, sensory debility, pissin harrderr, spiraling razors up the hidey hole, spearing smearing spiraling squealy-mouthed piggypeaks, up up and away through tubular glassy-smooth chambers of zzzzziiiip yeeeOWch jeezus mother of
cosmic zipper trauma.
