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Author Topic: PLAYLIST with COMMENTS/REVIEWS  (Read 2801878 times)
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Bloated Slutbag
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« Reply #7950 on: June 05, 2020, 09:53:08 AM »

See bottom of this post for digest commentary.

Hive – Demiurge 2xc90 (reissue)
And now, a brief history lesson from your friendly neighborhood Skeleton Dust. Brief? Yes, well. Nineteen-shitstain-ninety-five. A good noise year. Enter Niklaus Wiesend, aka Hive. Hive, one of those rare and utterly slaying urgencies, pops up from nowhere, annihilates everything in its path, and then pops right back to nothingness, never to be heard from again. But before the proverbial Hive-head gets popped for perpetuity, it blesses us with Demiurge.

Demiurge, original, is pretty much the complete package. Harsh slaying goodness, razor-sharp, dynamic, little inclined to relent, constantly evolving over a wide-ranging measure of moods and colors, many of them manhandled in piercingly vicious rough of rawhide-red ear-bleed dry-shred, pared down, butt-naked, crystalline, spiky-headed. Harsh slaying goodness, but off-kilter, different from practically everything else out there, open-ended and open-aired enough to suggest  an almost acoustic, or physical, disposition. Seasoned, too, with some faux ambient-psych intrusions, sky-blottening thunder-bellows, and the occasional vocal spastic, the whole messy spectacle shifting by degrees from one extreme to the next. Nary a dull moment over the full and ferocious 100-minute course. To help guide the listener through this veritable tour-de-féroce, a lengthy tract of text comes folded neatly into the fetishizable hive-box housing, serving in part as condensation of the sonic-sensual experience in play, part of which I quote:

They stick you in by yourself in this slider and then pipe in this noise—sort of a pierce jumping back and forth between shrieks and crashes they made with machines. At the same time, green lights find your retina quick and prance away just as fast doing little zig-zag dances on the way out and yer eyes can’t help but follow and yer lexicon starts to bulge all by itself, without you even raising a dirty, lazy finger. That noise they learn you with is supposed to be pure information or some trash, and yer head gets all drooly and hungry for it and just waits for the next session in the slider, cause you can start feeling what it’s like being a demiurge.

And honestly, that’s exactly how it hits. In kaleidescopic flashes of primary color, flooding the brainpan, multi-hued shrieks and crashes jumping about in a maddening dance that ultimately communes at a deeper, proto-informational, level, leaving the head popped, primed, panting, starved for more More MORE.

Craving more? That can be arranged. It is very much worth noting that the Demiurge originally bequeathed is a c90+c10. Per discogs, the persons responsible for this reissue would appear to have revised history in a way only a noiseperv could love: with the “full version” otherwise hidden from ear for the last two-point-five decades. Now, I did struggle a bit with the complex math here, but if my calculations are correct a 2xc90 gives us, let’s see here, yes: eighty whole extra minutes of very-probably-irreproachable earhole annihilation. There you have it. Skeleton Dust: putting the vision back in historical revisionism.

What this also means is we’re getting the four colors restored to their proper order, though I’m probably getting ahead of myself.

More worthy of mention, vis-a-vis the sonic-sensual experience, is that this is not merely the debut of material excised from the original, but that due to the limitations of format the material is ordered and arranged quite differently. I mean, it is unmistakably the same material, but in its full and glorious extravagance leaves quite a different and lasting impression. I am not yet ready to hold one above the other, the original or the reissue, but will say simply: the world needs both. (We’ll see what’s what in the course of time.)

Heresies duly acknowledged, it should be agreed that in presentation and packaging the reissue is as faithful to the original as could be hoped. Up to and including the eminently quotable tract of text penned by the demiurge himself, a second revelatory nugget of which to sample-

...there was this guy who taught us all to kill with poems. Not the special part that happens in yer brain with electricity and chemicals and trash, but the actual word part of things, the part about the lexicon that makes the juices flow hard enough to pop a head.


Side YELLOW—I am born and begin to shout slogans starts, quite literally with a bang, a bang that does not quite correspond to the banging accorded the c10 original but one that nicely prefaces the extended annihilations to come. Razor’d raw shrieking scorchleries savagely ripping ‘hole with a precise and poised kinetic hammering that refuses in its breakneck pacing to let up for a moment. Or so I would have expected. In the early going, the demiurge works itself into quite the frenzy, attacks coming so swift and severe it strikes as almost percussive. Nothing hidden or distorted, nothing buried in layers of murk, everything crystal clear, the total killing in store vivid in its WHITE-YELLOW hues. Ax-chops erratically thunk off fat chunks, then hack and blast them to bits in fevered rages of char-burnt seethe. And then…a marked slowing. A more considered thunk here, a more deliberate hack there, spaces opening wide to admit near silences and crawls through downward-dragged rubble-drudge.

As the ears acclimate to their less than ripped-to-shit surroundings one is forced to speculate. Suggestions of scandal emerge. Overzealous-if-possibly-visionary Plague In Perspective label boss cuts material deemed less annihilating. To fit the resulting format he then deliberately mixes up the colors. The poor suffering artist, in a fit of pique at the heavy-handed intrusions into his magnum opus, goes ape-shit, and the head, it just...snaps...crackles. Pops. Whatever the case, color me intrigued by the more broad-brushed perspective. The patience, the feeling things out. Holding back the wack. Centimetering along. Playing close to vest. And moments of genuine, say it, drag.

Then, inevitably, the unloading of the requisite holy hell, the unbridled ferocity that much more impactful and resonant. Several such episodes are sprinkled into the narrative, none of them really defining the whole but offering a sort of collage of complimentary impressions and exertions. Toward the end a not unwelcome bit of Maso-ish vocal-spastication, revealing that perhaps Mr Voice was there all along, driving the harsher severances, and in fact coloring many of the more rabid-flecked flavors on tap. The final episode does again carry on for a bit, this time in rasped and ruptured mid-shizzled shreddings, but with a filthed and blotchy atmosphere that convinces the attentions to stay the course.


RED—Stretching to Yawn, I Crack the Ceiling of Heaven. Now this, is harsh. Brutal. Vicious. Nothing quite so arty or episodic, fuck no. The penetrations are almost without exception delivered straight through Skull Central, drilling with severe and single-minded intent to damage hole. Kicks off in dramatic fashion, ruptured bash of echoing rhythmic distortions suggestive of Incoming. And then the harsh. Again very percussive in its unceasing ice-pick-through-the-eyeball stabbing insistence, quite minimal in its range of materials deployed. On the original YELLOW fronted c10, you’d automatically flip over for some GREEN, hard to be arsed to bother according the colors their the prescribed order. Here in the REDzone, the contrast couldn’t be sharper. Simple, but highly effective, not particularly fast-paced but just completely unrelenting. Or better: unforgiving.

Some minutes in, the demiurge piles on the scorch tones, seemingly headed for massed and layered oblivion, but then abruptly pulls back and enters a fantastically twisted dialog of crudely hacked blurt and more whitened blister-spasms. Open invitation, then, to wider-bodied psych permutation, brute belching insinuations gradually softening along the distorto-curve, soon to grow utterly incinerating in a pointed slathering meddly of severely-pitched dental scree, grinding shriek, screeching ear-scision. You could perhaps say RED, per YELLOW, is also somewhat episodic in unfolding, as each micro scorchout session tends to break into pauses for breath, ratcheting up the tension, promising that much more Ear Rape. But it just doesn’t fucking matter. The ‘holes are utterly fucked however you slice ‘em. The ending sequence here is simply divine, wide open spaces lacerated by tremendously violent slashes cum more mangled and ripped-raw mutilations.

Fuck. Got another ninety minutes to go. Earholes are fucking good as-


GREEN—Garlic Trembles From My Tongue. Yes I’m sure it does you pervert. This one sounds familiar. The sound of the earholes getting pummeled into submission. Look, they submit already fercrissake. This is the FULL GREEN, the c90 version, so question as to whether the rabid intensity can be sustained throughout as it is in the original abbreviated format. Well, certainly for the first few minutes it comes swinging: spine-ripping violence and abrasiveness hammering at the poor abused skull with merciless force and fury. After that, yes, well. Still pummeling rabidly away. An almost ambient underbrush suddenly pokes into the substratum, but hard for the GREEN’d grey matter to notice or care under all the incessant hammering. At one point, portly buzzing drone rolls onto the field but I don’t know if that’s the best of ideas. Just gonna piss the rabid pummeling off.

Now the rabid pummeling is joined by whitened bristles and the occasional hawking blurt. The field starts to distort, perspective warps, erratic percussive blasts resolve into straighter stuttering lines, the faux ambient underbelly starting to resemble choked and strangulated flatulence. The general sense is of an industrial-grade blender full of knife-blades all grinding twisting and whittling away at one another, edges dulled, broke off, bent, shattered. In the more overloaded intervals there is a genuine resemblance to traditional harsh noise, but then things go off-kilter again, indulging in swirling squeal and shriek even as the chopped stutter starts to resemble a pocked and seizure-racked engine-deathspasm.

Nevertheless, halfway through, a distinct grinding down of the gears, plowing straight into muddied fields of crumpled distorto-grits. Being that this is the demiurge talkin’ you know it ain’t gonna last, but still a good chance to enjoy the deviation from the unbridled ferocity that has been mercilessly raping hole for the better part of two hours. Naturally, when Ear Rape returns, none too much later, it is with fantastically white-hot stuttered incisions, breaking into pure waves of scorching fire. Yes, traditional harshnoise here, no question, but. Just. Brutal. In the closing minutes, false respite in the form of gasps of air, painfully sweet contrast of whitewashed searings flashing GREEN, charring BLACK.

Seriously folks, do I have to continue? I’m seriously going to have to give up noise for the next two-point-five decades at least. Seriously.


BLUE—My Red Heart Bruises Black, but we already knew that. Ditto the utterly scorched holes. Now, all that stuff I’ve been diarrhetically rambling on about, above? Well, you know it’s just the set-up for the main course. These could just be the ramblings of a sorry sod with earholes ready to give up completely, because, well, they are, but here the most piercing intensities seem just that much more...intense. Harsher, sure, but balanced quite precariously on a knife-edge of control and complete spastic-frenzied, eviscerating, bloodbath, the piercing intrusions continuously poised to fly off the handle, then driven deep into the sonic-sensual entrails, twisting, wrenching, jerking with willfully sadistic abandon.

The intro seems to set the tone. Not particularly harsh, but kind of...hinting at what’s to come. Thundered and rupturing stutter-belch wracked with little needle-sharp points of stinging heat. It’s just a question of when the stinging heat is going to erupt to outright inferno. In very short order the stutter-belch evolves into strings of rapid-fire percussive drilling rips, broken up among open-aired echoing blasts before driving furiously toward flattened scorch-curves. There are, in fact, quite a lot of open airs pock-marking the BLUE, serving more often than not to convey that spasmodic demi-urgency, the seeming ready willingness to blow clean apart without ever really letting go the raging white-knuckled jerk-o`-stab

Sudden slide now to galvanized psych-chambers, strands of lickety-spit liberally slathered about the metallic interior, deep dives to de-harshed grey-edged de-compressions, but not long before the demiurges get all scrunched and screechy-scorch hot again. On the home stretch here and piston-like PURPLE-headed knob-slobbery mimicking, shit you not, the sound of the damaged ears on the receiving end of harsh: all the pointed edges and piercing peaks roughly sanded off in vaguely sludge-drizzled remove, to learn us that, truly, there’s more to it than just scorching hole. The noise told me so.


Digest spew
Nineteen-shitstain-ninety-five was a good noise year, for several reasons including this one: kaleidescopic flashes of primary color, flooding the brainpan with multi-hued shrieks and crashes, razor sharp, dynamic, piercing, vicious, pared down to butt-naked, crystalline, tacks. Harsh slaying goodness, but off-kilter, the precise and poised kinetic hammering almost acoustic in disposition. There are, perhaps, a few let-ups in the unceasing frenzy of breakneck blistering attack, but principally to emphasize the incandescent raging ferocity of the next round of over-violence. And the next round always inevitably comes due. Praises be to the bringers of this rare wonder, going the extra mile in providing a “full” 3-hour version that is more than sufficiently different in its sonic-sensual unfolding from the 100-minute original. The world clearly needs both, so perhaps somewhere down the road some enterprising spirit could entertain reissue of the original in original format. That is, if the demiurge’s head doesn’t pop.
« Last Edit: June 05, 2020, 02:59:31 PM by Bloated Slutbag » Logged

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« Reply #7951 on: June 06, 2020, 03:53:52 AM »

Honestly ever since I spun that Hive reissue I’ve been digging hard into 90s Japanoise. The real classics, ya know.

Cracksteel, Crack Fierce, Thirdorgan, Government Alpha, K2, Kazumoto Endo.

Oh and Pain Jerk started that Bandcamp and is reissuing a ton of old stuff with bonus material, so that’s sick as hell.

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« Reply #7952 on: June 06, 2020, 04:21:53 PM »

Honestly ever since I spun that Hive reissue I’ve been digging hard into 90s Japanoise.

For me, coming off Hive, the first thing to spin was was Blister Pack Trini's Wad, issued via MSNP in that same blessed nineteen-shitstain-ninety-five. Sounds, at the core, somewhat Hive-ish, but rounding out the pointed percussives with hefty boy psych-distortions crushing in from the periphery. Nothing like any of the other Blister Packs I've come across but sufficiently removed from Hive as to imagine any number of possibilities. Up to and including the hidden hand of Roemer.


Pain Jerk reissuing is sick as hell.
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« Reply #7953 on: June 06, 2020, 04:50:44 PM »

I don’t care if people don’t seem to generally like 7”s. I do.

Personally I've never understood who all these people who hate 7" are, but it is obvious that they are a majority even among "scene people". Most 7" EPs ever made seem to be available for almost nothing, so from a collector/nostalgia masturbatory viewpoint that's a great thing. I've rarely paid even the initial release price for a used 7", even when the project in question usually causes insane price gouging for full lengths on Discogs. Strangely, I've also seen this phenomenon with 10" EP's which is even more confusing.

I assume this makes labels less likely to print 7" than they were 10+ years ago, so despite the short term benefits it's a sad development.
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« Reply #7954 on: June 07, 2020, 04:37:29 AM »

Dub of Macronympha 1999Cdr
Mo*te presumably reworking Macronympha, but not much information is given, being that the packaging is a feminine pad and a sticker. It is very good as you might expect.

As I understood it, the only "reworking" involved was the dubbing onto tape of material received from Roemer. Hence the title. The sticker is 100% Mo*Te though. Damn good, cosigned, of the more flat-out if recognizably fat 'n flatulent Macro persuasion. The final track sounds like an untreated if somewhat clandestine-flavored field recording of fat flatulent diesel engines revving and idling, evidently Roemer channeling one of his other great non-tranny fetishes. (Not that I'm going to start trying to keep track of anyone's fetishes. Can barely keep track of my own.) For more involved channeling of the motor fetish please see Telepherique & One Dark Eye Body Shop, which I believe to rep the Roemer One Dark Eye not the Stella (but don't quote me on that).
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« Reply #7955 on: June 07, 2020, 02:44:01 PM »

^
telepherique + one dark eye - "body shop" is never mentioned but i think it is fantastic!
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« Reply #7956 on: June 08, 2020, 12:02:17 PM »

See bottom of this post for digest commentary.

Blind Date – Acting Class
It starts out, like all great tragedies, so innocent and unassuming. Just a casual little Flirt. By the end of it, ‘holes utterly smoked, scorched, pulped, bleeding to massed clusters of incredibly dense, blown out, wall-to-wall, textural rrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiiip…well. What to say. Kids, stay in school.

If I read right, the narrative- a cautionary tale of betrayal and violent psychosis told in three parts- proceeds in reverse chronology. The disquieting opening scene of Part 1, Blood Sadist Goes To Nudist, finds warbled vocal vomit spurting red in dribbly snot-bubbles among the mangled, beached torsos of…

Hold on. Sorry, that was the sequel. Where’ s my fucking… Just ah, just a moment here while I get my act together. My apologies. Let’s try that again.

The disquieting opening scene of Part 1, Failed Actor Goes Psycho finds massed clusters of incredibly dense, blown out, wall-to-wall, textural rrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiiip lovingly arraigned among individually separated tapestries of a lush and full bodied frequency spectrum. Note to self: scratch lovingly. Replace with pathologically. Comorbid with the psychotic obsession to audial-pervi-luscious detail, a marked and possibly degenerative reluctance, or incapacity, to keep aloft the interest in a particular groove: the “method” employed by this sorry excuse for an actor is as deranged, spasmodic and ungroovy as um an exceedingly ungroovy thing. That the rather artfully rendered cover appears to depict a porn shoot only underlines the epic tragedy of this “failure to perform”.

In the reverse-aftermath of Part 2, the harshly flailing and lacerating Cruel Fan Mail presents as particularly- if deliciously!- hurtful. And all that hurt, all that textural obliteration, precipitated by the oh-so-apparently sweet and innocent- but ultimately rather savage and violent- Part 3, Flirt. (In the sequel, the tragic failure, having slaked all sadistic bloodlust and rage, aural orifices utterly smoked, scorched, pulped, bleeding, goes full Nudist, washed up, on a beach, smoking dope, no longer able to get it up let alone hear, just hangin’, low and to the left, stroking the chin in an affected and ill-convincing bearddrone posture. But that’s another story.)

I’ll confess, this was my first proper time out with Blind Date so I approached our first session together with some trepidation, keeping the volume on the low. (Well that and at the moment in question there may have been persons present who were disinclined to appreciate the harsh shit.) A good opportunity it turns out to engage in a favorite pastime, and one I’d recommend as an interesting exercise for you- yes, you!- to try: play the harsh shit back at low volume. (The disc is mastered fucking loud, so you’ll have to turn it down really low.) You will, still, retain a good sense of the depth and degree of separation in play. It’s almost counter-intuitive. Or counter-harshnoise-itive. Massed clusters of incredibly dense, blown out, wall-to-wall, textural rrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiiip, distilled and broken down into their infinite and infinitely complex component parts, growing more distorted, smudged, crunched and blown out as they accelerate along the amplitude curve, to the inevitable point, and beyond, where the massed clusters of incredibly dense, blown out, wall-to-wall, textural rrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiiip leave the bemused prattling of yours soddly simply not giving a fuck, in thrall to the fantastically crushing penetrations reigning in from up high, on the side, down low, infinitely deeeep, in hole.

Failed Actor Goes Psycho is a goddamn monster. Massed clusters of incredibly dense, blown out, wall-to-wall, textural rrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiiip, sure. But with the degrees of separation everything is so, well, I was going to say crystalline but that’d be a bit oxymoronic (not that that ever stopped me before!) It pierces, hows that? Not just all crunched up tight and saturated but sharp and tasty as fuck, teasing up a labyrinthian array of potential grooves to slam into, only to blow apart the moment you think you’ve locked on. The opening moments are the correct course. Half a minute of fiddling with metal scrap acoustics, abraded mic abuse and raspy whisper-hiss establish the depths that are due to get blasted a la dense frequency overbilge. At intervals heavy duty thunk of junk-scrap bashes through the cascading thunder-surge, and at others the thunder-surge mimics the junk-scrap bashing, flashing wildly about the channel pan. So things do get pretty fevered in a never-letting-up rampage of psychotic angular rip sorta way, but hardly flailing about with spastic abandon. The sheer crushing density ensures that nothing will ever completely escape the steel-trap of self-reinforcing psychosis. By the halfway or so mark, the convulsions start to crowd in on one another, ill-filtered histrionics ineffectually fighting to reign in an ultimately uncontrollable disaster of epic proportions, massed monumental crunch-walls collapsing one after the other, spiky scrap-dildos attempting to gouge their way through, failing with grand style.

Cruel Fan Mail cuts with savagely pointed viciousness through minefields of heart-ripping hurt, marked by one vicious cut after another. The cuts come fast and hard, a relentless barrage of spectrum-rupturing bewilderment, convoluted, contradictory, massed clusters of incredibly dense, blown out, wall-to-wall, texture rrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiiipping in from all sides, punching through to every extreme and back again. If the intent is to wear the recipient down, past the point of caring, to a state of numb self-debasement, then this is a rip-roaring success. Again, one has to admire the focused cruelty in play. As convoluted and contradictory as things get, this never lets itself devolve into aimless spastic flailing: plenty of time apportioned for each and every vicious laceration to cut deep, almost down to the bone, and then, slowly, to twist, with excruciating exactitude. These sadistic evil fuckers know exactly what they are doing, which is what makes it so successful, and disturbing.

If Flirt is any less vicious, it is in name only. Here the massed clusters of incredibly dense, blown out, wall-to-wall, textural rrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiiip flirt with some legitimately severe stretches of outright scorch. At the more blistered and scathe-lathered edges, the net effect is like a kind of fevered screeching dementia overtaking the bloodwalls, very much live and in the moment, inclined to erupt with barest hint of vocal seizure inflaming the passions. Now, this will probably tell you more about your faithful commentator than the actual stuff issuing from the speakers, but I found it impossible to sit still for the duration of this track, as though in psychosomatic sympathy with the explosive squalls of nervous energy tearing through the ozone, fists punching the air, inaudible-slash-drowned-out ejaculations of “FUCK YEAH!” issuing from the lips. Sad isn’t it? But in the end, whatever we may see in the movies or in the news, all tragedy must, finally, come down to the individual. I have my private hell. Maybe someday, you too can have yours.


Digest spew
Massed clusters of incredibly dense, blown out, wall-to-wall, textural rrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiiip, meticulously- better, pathologically- arraigned among individually separated tapestries of a lush and full bodied frequency spectrum. As the considered distillation of infinite and infinitely complex component parts accelerates along the amplitude curve, the ever burgeoning masses grow ever more distorted, smudged, crunched, explosive, to the inevitable point, and beyond, where the massed clusters of incredibly dense, blown out, wall-to-wall, textural rrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiiip leave the bemused prattling of yours soddly simply not giving a fuck, in thrall to the fantastically crushing penetrations reigning in from up high, on the side, down low, infinitely deeeep, in hole.
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« Reply #7957 on: June 10, 2020, 09:05:24 PM »

阿呆船 [Ahousen] ‎– 阿呆船 CD - PSF 2007 - Got this last year at the end of my Japanese psych buying spree and by the time I got around to it I was mentally spent I guess. It was cheap and figured the reason was it was mediocre. Listening again today I'm wondering what my fucking problem was. It's got screeching sax on top of freeform psych rock and weird and harsh vocals, sort of like Haino meets Kousokuya, but screechier. I'd say more "rock" than improv or free jazz, but it's definitely fucked up enough to appeal to some people here. It's also not outrageously priced on discogs, for the moment, so it's an inexpensive risk for those willing.

K2 - Hypertrophy cassette - Nefarious Activities 2020 - I am not a K2 aficionado. What I've heard is mostly the period of crazy harsh cut-ups from the mid-90s so this gurgling, swirling, bubbling psychedelic synth stuff was unexpected.  BUT very welcome. Easily could've doubled as a soundtrack for a '90s Japanese experimental film. Worked well as background listening for reading too. It's a long tape so I'm having trouble giving more specific descriptions but don't come into it thinking it'll be like "The Rust". I appreciate the packaging as it give space for the nice collage art but at the same time I don't really like envelopes because they seem to take a beating with even minimal handling.

Converter - Exit Ritual CD - Ant-Zen 2003
Converter - Expansion 1.10 2x10" - Ant-Zen 2003
Converter - Expansion Pack 2.0 2xCD - Ant-Zen 2005
Converter - Asche - Morgenstern - Erode CD - Ant-Zen 2001
It's insane how much good material Converter put out between 1999 and 2003, which was basically the primary run of the project. 3 solo albums, one collab album, 2 long EPs, 1 b-sides EP, all of it worth owning. There's a clear rapid evolution in the sound from more synthetic into more organic and abstract. Guy must have been on creative overload because it just stops abruptly after 2003, with a few things trickling out over the next 17 years after that. I wonder what happened... 
But the above releases, I must have talked about all of them here at least once before. Exit Ritual is still my favorite. Half of it is straight proper industrial, the other half is fucking heavy beats but with real dynamics in the tracks. All the other releases listed above stick more to a dance track construction style, even if the sounds are far from the club sometimes. I love pounding 4/4 rhythms so it all works for me, but it's interesting to see how much better Converted does his thing than any of the remixers on Expansion Pack 2.0 do theirs. There are maybe 3 interesting remixes and the rest are weaker than the originals. But there's a shit load of b-side tracks over the two discs too, so if you want Converter, you fucking get it.
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« Reply #7958 on: June 11, 2020, 01:20:12 AM »

K2 - Hypertrophy cassette - Nefarious Activities 2020 - I am not a K2 aficionado. What I've heard is mostly the period of crazy harsh cut-ups from the mid-90s so this gurgling, swirling, bubbling psychedelic synth stuff was unexpected.  BUT very welcome. Easily could've doubled as a soundtrack for a '90s Japanese experimental film. Worked well as background listening for reading too. It's a long tape so I'm having trouble giving more specific descriptions but don't come into it thinking it'll be like "The Rust". I appreciate the packaging as it give space for the nice collage art but at the same time I don't really like envelopes because they seem to take a beating with even minimal handling.

I'm about halfway through this now, was waiting for me when I arrived home from work today. I love Tekhnodrug and have been anticipating this one since it was announced. The soundscapes are quite pleasurable and the whole thing is just so easy to listen to.

I appreciate that the envelope is reinforced by the thicker cardstock artwork affixed to it. It'll definitely survive longer than the majority of similar packages.
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« Reply #7959 on: June 11, 2020, 04:10:53 PM »

I appreciate that the envelope is reinforced by the thicker cardstock artwork affixed to it. It'll definitely survive longer than the majority of similar packages.

No doubt. It's not as if I haven't used easily ruined folder packaging myself for releases (twice now?). I guess destruction of "art assets" is just the name of the game when the game is international cassette sales.


Mania - Armed to the Teeth CD - PACrec / Troniks 2008 - one of those CDs I meant to buy for ages but never did because it seemed to always be available so that need to pounce on it wasn't there. But I finally did last year and it's what I expected: insect synth bits, inarticulate screams, beautiful metal work and the sound of guns guns guns. the day at the shooting range, or more like day at the dunes with big fucking guns, sample that is woven in and out of the track doesn't add tension so much as texture and something less abstract to hang your hat on. it might be one of the only Mania recordings you could call straight up fun. because if you've ever been to one of those big gun meet ups you know there just fun. it's a celebration of engineering, destruction and military fetishism, as American as apple pie. easy recommendation for this one, but you already know it's good.
« Last Edit: June 11, 2020, 04:19:27 PM by ConcreteMascara » Logged

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« Reply #7960 on: June 12, 2020, 09:50:46 AM »

See bottom of this post for digest commentary.

Violent Shogun - Knife Will Not Open Because Of The Rust.
I know how frustrating it can be. But with the Shogun it's not like we haven't been through this before. Steel, even the high grade Japanese stuff, needs care. This becomes increasingly, painfully, clear over five straight sessions of exceedingly violent, roughly acoustic, metal-on-metal abuse. I’d say something but just between you and me, I’m starting to think he enjoys it.

This “tape” <quotations added>, which has yet to actually be made available on tape, was recorded in the middle of 2018 for a Swedish label that is NOT Team Boro, hur hur, and seems to have been intended as a follow up to the Shogun’s memorably noisome invitation to Taste Our Japanese Steel- self-discharged on recycled tape earlier the same year. Now if only that bloody knife would open we might dis-enjoy something of similarly festering decrepitude: a tin can fueled love declaration to Jaako Vanhala and Hal Hutchinson, close-mic'd junk-metals whanging and banging their rottingest, skewing baroque in a lengthy, continuously evolving, narrative arc that is savagely butchered in the ferric degradations of crest and puke, shove and scrape, clank and clunk.

Here, long-form narrative aspirations all but rusted shut, the Shogun takes a new line of attack. Five lines of attack, in fact, each quite distinct from the other, all quite pointed and focused on the presumptive task at hand: the reclaiming of a once treasured blade without losing claim to fingers—or other treasured parts—in the process. And brought off, I have to admit, with no small degree of cunning and ingenuity given the stated limitations of the materials at hand: a broken mixer, that now familiar tin can, and crusty tape loops. The crusty tape loops deployed do tend to wallow in low-pitched flatulating electronics, but serve the offensive well, lending a robust if decidedly grim, industrial-strength, flavor.

Attack the first takes place in a groaning blackened chamber thick with lugubrious atmosphere, metal chains rattling along the walls. When the heaving scraps blast into play, initial expectations of possible breakthrough are soon muted in the implacable gloom. At intervals, the whine of rusted, protesting metals rings through the calm before being swallowed up again in a heavy, full-bodied, factory dissemblage. By the fourth minute, the metals have all but given up, fuzzy bulge-balls feigning interest and then slinking in embarrassment into putrid pools of rippling sludge.

The second attack is much more of the metal-whanging-on-metal persuasion, with little in the way of electronic flatulence. Clangs and bangs are dispersed across a widened stereo field, hitting at times with quite some collective force, as though eager again to have the recipient sample the Japanese steel. Often however, the implements appear to struggle to assert themselves, caught scraping along corroded hinges, abrasive frictions wearing the edges down. In the abbreviated moments of ensuing calm, unsightly liquid palpitations drizzle onto the scene, as though to remind the Shogun of the considerable exertions yet demanded.

Things definitely seem to be going off the rails at the start of the third effort. Clipped machine-gun bass-thumpings underscore looped dialog of burnt hiss and cracked rattle. Soon, however, the rattle grows more dominant, echoing with increasingly heavy-handed concentration of clank and scour, signaling commencement of a none-so-surreptitious sneak attack. Higher-ended squeals merge with now quite singed-to-shit hissing washes, metal scraps knock together in crumpled whirling percussion, coming on strong in the final minute as the rhythms bow out to let the acoustic banging lead an all-too-soon-abandoned charge.

By the fourth foray, the apparent lack of progress has clearly taken its toll, grumbles and moans echoing in the doldrums of a repetitive, mournful, dirge. Junk scraps barely register against the dreary churn of crusty tape loops, though crusty is a bit of an understatement. Tape ribbons, stretched and frazzled to their limits, struggle to chew their way over derelict heads, heavy rumbling motors ready to give up completely. The metals, of course, are there, but rather muffled in gutted fidelities, not so much clanking or clunking as just grinding sulkily along, fighting to be heard above an endlessly wailing cycle of withered alarm-droop. Toward the end, as the tightly packed grumbling and grinding fights more determined metallic scrape, an unexpected bleed-through of shrieking shithawk squawk, wheedling and screeching at the unfairness of it all.

The fifth and final attack sees a resurgence of the full metal racket, clearly accepting of the urgency of the stakes. Egged on by downpitched loop of sardonic, grimacing, “whoop-whoop”, the first of several steely whangs comes slamming down with all earhole-jarring force. The sheer razored precision of these widely-panned whangs would almost suggest that that obstinate blade has actually been prized open. As with attack the second, the unmistakable invitations to taste Japanese steel, frosted edges huffed with ghost-whitened backwash. As the glowering horde of filth-choked underbellows starts to percolate to the surface, the steely whangs are reinforced with a wide assortment of variously abraded scraps, smashing scraping and clashing, charging together in a final savage thrust—for victory! Ill-contained densities broach critical levels, the stench of rotted metal heavy in the air. Palpable, now, the threat to drown the sorry scrap assembly in moldering rivers of rust...

Till that wily old shogun, with stone cold patience and cruelty, disembowels the sorry lot.


Digest spew
In the gutted, churning wake of Taste Our Japanese Steel, long-form narrative aspirations all but rusted shut, the Shogun takes five uniquely qualified lines of attack. Five lines, all quite brutishly pointed and focused on the unenviable task at hand. This particular offensive is served a robust if decidedly grim, industrial-strength, flavor, in the form of low-pitched, flatulating electronics. Dilapidated masses of metal-on-metal whanging banging clunking and thunking are retrieved from their decrepit confines, then dispersed over a widened channel pan, piling on in concert with variously abraded scrapes and scours. The sheer weight of opposition threatens to crush the assembled scrap implements in dense piles of heaving, lugubrious, moldering waste, noisome fidelities fairly burnt to shit, but don’t be too quick to count that wily old shogun out.
« Last Edit: June 12, 2020, 11:29:06 AM by Bloated Slutbag » Logged

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« Reply #7961 on: June 17, 2020, 07:02:48 AM »

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MNEM – Elyktrion
Soundtrack for an abandoned, decaying, world. A world long neglected, long gone to shit. A world drained of color, drained of hope, the dreary droning clamor of the moribund machines that imprison it inexorably grinding down all will to endure.

This is the way the work starts, not with a bang but a whimper. A groan. A dull droning drawl dragging decayed derelict dirge-motors down, drained, defeated, discarded. This is the way it continues. And as for the end, well, I think we all know how that goes.

One way this recording does not go, is harsh. Not in any deliberate sense. Not at the surface. Hell, there is no surface. In the smothered washed-out fidelities, scarcely the smidgingest suggestion of abrasive. Where the previous Hegonon was perhaps no less miserably disposed, there were at least a few aborted attempts to get the motors running, hard driving loop action, roughened raw abrasion, no lube. Here, the damage has evidently already been done, the edges well and worn away, the lumpy remnants mottled, flaking, crusted. We’re left with barely even the ghosts of the machines, cold burnt-out husks puttering dismally in slow-oscillating cycles that could simply be the imagined echoes throbbing deep in skull, like what in hell was I drinking last night? The exact opposite of party music. Morning after music. Dull throbbing that would hurt if there were anything left of the senses to hurt with.

So little deliberate hurt, but also very little respite. Just interminable garbled grinding of rumpled, life-depleted, oscillations, on and on and on. The first of these comes crumbling and distorted in the grayish reverberating haze of Testyndo. Periodic chunks of ugly, gnarled, crudballs tumble through muffled electrostatic drizzlings, resonances gradually dying out in the blurred distances. The effect is as though a warped and wobbly propeller turbine were being methodically hand-revved in a gutted wastewater treatment facility, ragged coughs and belches failing to elicit anything more than flaccid looping sputter.

Mytomania feels like a hefty motor belt struggling to grub its way through the char-burnt friction of dilapidated parts. Smudged blurt of rubberized shriek protests against heavily rumbling sludge, and perhaps the first muted suggestion of auricular abrasion, subsurface granules genuinely thick with brutish, grating texture. As if to emphasize the point, sandpapery chisels chafe at the edges, the convergence of looped layers achieving a rhythmical, grunting, consistency, face down, snuffling in the dirt.

Then a bit of deviation in the way of smoothly drawn out buzzing undulations, licking languidly from ear to ear, the cool caress gently escorting phased attentions through faintly flickering passages of twilit resonance. It would be easy to forget oneself in this rather tranquil interlude, which is probably why the mood is augmented slightly with some grubbier grubbings at the crest of each lolling arch.

The calmly grating dilapidations return on the flip-side, whose Klesydra scans in these ‘holes as most recognizably MNEM-like. Ovalled electro-burble stammers to a slurred bleat, echoed peaks panning in disordered irritation to a drawn-out wail.  If the suggestion in these words of some excitement then my bad because it all of course comes draped in bleary-eyed claustrophobias of dead, bone-dry, haze, woozy ghosted grit-kernels drudging at the faintest fringe of perception.

Sekond Vast Field does not at first seem inclined do what it say on the tin, sounding like one end of a microphone employed in the excavation of a mud-thickened rock hovel. Keening radiophonic chirps do admittedly sketch the possibility of fairly wide and open airs echoing in the darker vergings. As immersions burrow deeper, the chamber begins to widen, burly reverberations rumbling lethargic across the channel pan. Eventually, though, the field dries up, heavier heavings rutting crudely in lumbering backwashed vomits of guttural sludge.

By Peripheral Intervention, the ghost machines seem ready to give up completely, sludge-loop rumples circling in tandem with warbled wheedles progressively strung out and straggling in slack, disconsolate, indifference, soon giving up the ghost for the crowning Oblivion Arc.

In the final extended push for oblivion, quite the range of disparate elements crowds onto the scene. First a steady percussive plunk, dragged out to a ragged, dribbly, sputter. Then a host of surprisingly decipherable acoustic bangs and clangs hammers about the field with variable degrees of heft. Wet whispered washes set off undulating synthetic squeals, crashes and clangs looming large, reverberating with genuine drama. You’ll forgive me for staring at my speakers in suspicion as quite the different sort of picture emerges, machines massing monumental in their cavernous calls to terminal collapse. A last elephantine howl to the never-answering heavens, end.


Digest spew
This is the way the work starts, not with a bang but a whimper. A groan. A dull droning drawl dragging decayed derelict dirge-motors down, drained, defeated, discarded. Soundtrack to a world gone to shit. But still carrying on, piled higher and deeper, interminably, insufferably, the moribund motors that imprison it slowly grinding down all will to endure. The most remarkable thing about Elyktrion is that someone could ever have been bothered to press the record button. But y'know, I'm glad they did. This stuff speaks to me. I may not necessarily like what’s being said, but it makes me glad to be half alive.
« Last Edit: June 17, 2020, 07:36:49 AM by Bloated Slutbag » Logged

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« Reply #7962 on: June 17, 2020, 02:40:53 PM »

i'm not really good at describing noise, or music i guess, but today i played all my 10"s! and tried to write a review as i listened.

maeror tri - pleroma/altrovec [pic disc, ant-zen] - first side works with a muffled rythm, buried drones & synth lines. layers build up into a tense wall of hazy patterns before crumbling away. the b-side also is a collage of musical loops melded into disorienting wall of sound that twists and warps into a highly intoxicating barrage of loops and rythms, even veering into more distorted territories at times. great stuff to my ears, and a  more 'musical' effort than the pure drone works of maeror tri.

brume - anastomose [pic disc, ant-zen] - hard to describe! first side is buzzing drones and some female & male voice samples that i believe to be in french panning around the stereo field. some clanking and deep synth tones work their way in to fill in the gaps before turning into some tribal rythms not usual for brume, at least not a usual addition to the sound that i can remember happening on other releases.  b-side is a more typical sound for brume with a high-end tone carrying on before being mixed with more noisey, but not distorted, synth experimenting that later dissolves into near silent minimal atmosphere punctuated by spars acoustic clanking around. mixed feelings about this record, hard to really describe!

contagious orgasm - in my heart -[pic disc, ant-zen] - typical atmosphere for this time period of contagious orgasm but then thumping tribal beat takes over. unique at the time, not overdone, ok but i prefer my contsagioud orgsam without the 'music'.

imminent starvation & synapscape - remix item  [pic disc, ant-zen] - this is how i like my rythmic noise...heavy on the distortion, white noise blasts... complex, unique sounds barbarically pounding away. synapscape adds some raspy distorion pedal fed vocals, and imminent remixs a track of dark synth waves adding heavy distorted rythms. heavy is the word for this record i think. like alberich, but not as minimal, more noisey, less of a 'synth preset' selection of sounds used... while still very musically done, you can tell the approach to the sound creation took a lot of manipulation.

stromilinie - tunnel [ant-zen] - unknown project with a great record. "recorded in subways" ... not sure what that means as it seems pretty obvious synths are used. has the train rythms vibe going at times but the standout track is 'u-bahn fart'. mostly droning synth tones, like descending down a long tunnel.

vromb - locomotive [angle rec] - more train influence! hypnotic, minimal, repetitive... beats... when i'm in the mood for it vromb really does it like no other.

beequeen - the sorrough gate [ant-zen] - personally favorite beequeen as they seem to have hit and miss moments for me but this is all good. well done mixture of droning & musique concrete sounds. nice oversized heavy cardboard sleeve with minimal art, closeups of the moon surface... the folder is very nice but kinda a stupid selection of images/font. coulda been better.

les joyaux de la princesse - croix de boise/croix de feu [pic disc, ljdlp] - lush droning organ and orchetral pieces, french political speeches, bombs dropping... ya know, ljdlp style.

mauthausen orchestra - kiss the carpet [xn]. first real noise music i ever heard! soft spot for that reason for sure but this is just great. primitive noise sources, decrepid, fanatical over the top vocals. i remember some talk that this is not really zoppo? i don't know and don't care. piss yellow vinyl, foldout textured cardboard. worth whatever price its going for.

k2 - anybody can't catch up with this [ant-zen] - the real shit. remixed material from 'the rust', and just as good. classic era k2, packaged in some type of wax paper sleeve. record is never mentioned among best of k2, perhaps since so many releases of this time period are similar, but he is in perfect form here. easily as good as the rust, or any of the many classic 7"s.

john wiese & hive mind - trick satanism - kind of a weird pairing, kinda awkward sounding. i guess you can see how this would play out. hive mind synth work but heavy on the distortion, kinda reminds me of something from hiroshi hasegawa, but more minimal layering of sounds, not as fierece, but not quiet by any means.
« Last Edit: June 17, 2020, 02:43:13 PM by collapsedhole » Logged
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« Reply #7963 on: June 17, 2020, 06:00:44 PM »

Collapsedhole thanks for that 10" survey. I'll have to check some of those out, especially the K2 one. 10" is such a superfluous format but I love a lot of the ones I have.

Just a couple of quick words today..

Pain Station - Dead is Dead CD - COP International 2001 - I must have known about this EBM-ish project of Scott Sturgis aka Converter for a long long time, but somehow I never heard it. Picked up this CD a few weeks ago on a whim and it's pretty enjoyable. While it's way more chilled than Converter, reminding me of "Concrete Jungle" era Dive more than anything, the production is really good and shares some similarities in execution. The vocals are decent, the lyrics less so, but I almost always expect EBM lyrics to make me cringe at least 50% of the time. They aren't the main focus though so it's okay. Definitely worth the $5 I paid and cool to see a different side of Scott Sturgis's work that was apparently happening right alongside his best Converter material.

Grunt - Spiritual Eugenics 2xLP - Freak Animal 2020 - I need more time to process and give proper thoughts but I'd say as a lazy description it sounds like World Draped In A Camouflage meets Castrate the Illusionist. Minimal but very clear layers in each song with the expected mouth-watering metal work and semi-expected weird synth/loop/sample stuff providing texture. I'm admittedly a Grunt fanboy, but certainly an early contender for album of the year.

AUBE - Dazzle Reflexion CD - The Releasing Eskimo 1997 - I'm nearly an AUBE virgin but I really enjoy this CD. It feels very futuristic and switches between anxiety inducing and oddly relaxing pretty regularly. Sounds like the kind of music android hackers would snort in 2049.
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« Reply #7964 on: June 18, 2020, 10:43:20 AM »

Japanoise of Death LP. Also Steinklang, impressive line-up, but there is something here why I never rated this along the very greats of Japanese noise compilations. Many tracks are great, like Incapacitants, K2,... and more.. but there are also couple tracks thrown there that are way below good. Normally, good comp can survive bunch of lazier tracks, but somehow this always has something unexplained why it just doen't hit me like it... "should". Listened this twice now, and my conclusion remain the same. Good, but not great. Can't explain why.

Well, you just did and I agree. Several contributions are simply not up to the standards expected of the contributors. Though for me a single good track would generally be sufficient to keep me coming back. Generally. Concerned readers may be encouraged to note that numeral II from the series goes I'd say very far in righting any perceived wrongs of the predecessor. Excellent opener from Guilty Connector followed by total scorcher from Hijokaidan followed by...a good and satisfying array of A-games repped.
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