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Author Topic: PLAYLIST with COMMENTS/REVIEWS  (Read 2801896 times)
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FallOfNature
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« Reply #8025 on: July 29, 2020, 12:13:26 AM »

Psychomania comp tape (Der Bunker).

+ spending a lot of time with Grollfried and Corneus. Almost unlistenable but strangely addictive.
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« Reply #8026 on: July 29, 2020, 01:53:43 AM »

computer murder VA

I'm out of town at the moment so haven't had a chance to spend any time with the real deal yet, but I did have the opportunity to take some good Acid during a camping trip this past weekend and listened to a couple of sides digitally on headphones. Absolutely hit the spot.
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« Reply #8027 on: July 29, 2020, 07:17:04 PM »

Right on - those are my plans this weekend to a T, ha.

With that in mind, I did work my way through the VA over 2 days of COVID insanity at work..

VA - Computer Murder Hospital Productions 2020
Ames Sanglantes- my favorite material in here. Punishing, rhythmic industrial. Air raid sirens, machine gun clatter - reminded me of Geography of Hell in it's loose "narrative" feel and rhytmic noise bits. Blown out loops and concrete mixer churn. Great low end. B side goes for a more chaotic, feedback driven sound, broken out into discrete pieces.

Skin Crime - in keeping with the more recent releases this follows the slow build into fulminating chaos structure we've seen since Ghosts I Have Been. The pallet here is sizzling electronics, and scraping steel, really nailing the "Computer Murder" theme. Love the Dalek and Harlan Ellison referencing titles.

Prurient & Alberich - I ended up slightly disappointed with this one. While the combination of churning electronics and synth makes for some great moments, there is an improvised sense that reminds me of Rainbow Mirror. It never quite articulates its cold war themes outside of some excellent samples. The track Desiring God is what I wanted more of - a chaotic amplification of both their strong points.

Rogue State - An outlier on this comp, lots of shorter, loop based harsh noises tracks. Solid material if a bit fatiguing - well executed, just coming from a small range of sounds. Maybe if I gave it some room to breathe I'd be more enthusiastic, just hard to get through on the heels of the more monolithic sounds that dominate the VA.

Interracial Sex - Apefrica Fusty Cunt 2020
Wicked release, figured we'd see more chatter about it here. IS continues to push some of the most unhinged, transgressive power electronics. Thematically coherent with furious delivery. Down in the Bush is a real standout, vocals are like...the great Cornholio shredding PE? So much more interesting than another dude lazily flangering off about war crimes (not talkin shit on anyone specific, just very into the idea of what PE can be when people bring something fresh to the genre)

Supression- Fractured Landscape Chaotic Noise Productions 2020
112 tracks blasted across a C10. Wigged out noisecore that kinda reminds me of Release the Pirahna era of Supression, pulling in a thick, overdriven bass and drum tone. Muuuuch shorter songs though.
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ConcreteMascara
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« Reply #8028 on: August 05, 2020, 04:14:40 PM »

Various ‎– Altered States Of Consciousness CD - UPD Organization 1991
Picked this CD up a few weeks ago. Surprisingly to me, it’s a somewhat laid-back affair that certainly doesn't lack for variety, despite it being only 6 tracks. It starts with MERZBOW from 1991 and right away I'm reminded of why he's arguably the god of noise or king of noise or whatever superlative title he gets. "HGL Made A Race For The Last Brain" is so physical, heavily layered and immediately enjoyable you can't help but wonder if this comp didn't open a little too strong for its own good. The answer is probably yes! Mz.412's "Fire" is a nice slab of industrial built around Twin Peaks samples [back when the show was just airing] and metal clank. it's crunchy and compressed in the right way and works really well despite its relative simplicity compared to the previous MERZBOW barrage. Maybe I should check out Mz.412?  Next up, Trance, with some ominous guitar playing, through what sounds like an array of Boss delay pedals. Think Mark McGuire except instead of acid vibes its ketamine. I like it. I think I'd like it if it was even longer, but I guess I'll never know. ok Asmus Tietchens up next and it feels like this is a condensed template for the entire Aural Hypnox sound? Gongs, scrapings, minimal electronics, sinister and otherworldly ambiance. I am on fucking board. Then its PGR / Thessalonians with the tabla driven "Absolute Equinox". Almost like the other side of the Asmus Tietchens offering, as instead of being dissociative creaks in the night, this is clearly physical. It verges the tiniest bit into new-age, but the undercurrent of whispers and groans keeps it from going full "pure moods". Also having a tabla played for the track helps to, rather than some random sampled drum pattern. Yet another good one. Five songs so far and not one bad one. Dissecting Table closes it out with "Humanism 2". In keeping with the rest of the comp this is more of an atmosphere piece rather than the rhythmic blitzkrieg you might expect. Probably closest to the material found on Zigoku, but definitely a standalone piece. Lots of synthetic strings and piano playing out like some warped cyberpunk version of Castlevania or Clock Tower music. Dissecting Table's sound palette is so similar to ‘90s anime and video game scores I can’t help but hear them and make the comparison. But yeah, really creaky castle goth vibes clashing with cyberpunk wasteland. I could listen to a whole Dissecting Table album in this style!

All together I’m very happy with this compilation. I think it highlights what’s been reminisced about so frequently here on the forums which is a wide array of artists, sounds and approaches on one comp that provides diversity but also a first look into projects you might not otherwise hear.  
« Last Edit: August 05, 2020, 04:16:58 PM by ConcreteMascara » Logged

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« Reply #8029 on: August 06, 2020, 08:14:52 AM »

Mz.412 is definitely worth checking out. My personal picks would be In Nomine Dei Nostri Satanas Luciferi Excelsi, Burning the Temple of God, or Nordik Battle Signs.
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« Reply #8030 on: August 06, 2020, 04:00:37 PM »

Wolf Eyes – Burned Mind CD – Sub Pop 2004
I was hit out of nowhere a few nights ago with a deep desire to go through the Wolf Eyes releases I still own. This is where it all started for me. Prior to Wolf Eyes I had heard MERZBOW, noise side-projects from metal artists and a lot of extreme computer music like Pita and Hecker and other Mego and Warp related stuff. I don’t know how I first became aware of Wolf Eyes but I remember seeing this album art online and thinking, “this has to be good”. Because it’s on “indie” label Sub Pop I was actually able to buy this CD at Tower Records, in person, after school. That sentence makes me feel old. That first listen had me looking like the Maxwell arm chair guy getting his hair and brain blown out, stoned and terrified.

This was it for me, the third part of the noise Rosetta Stone, the other two being MERZBOW’s Venereology and the Satanstornade live recording on net label Falsch. And listening to it now, it’s really a perfect kind of gateway to noise album because it feels like a fucking rock n roll album. There are “riffs”, simulacra of “percussion” or “beats” and snarling and snide vocals. The songs feel like songs rather abstract art/noise/whatever. Compared to listening to Venereology which felt like a terrifying, life and death errand in those early years, Wolf Eyes was music to get rowdy to, to actively enjoy and participate with rather than just withstand. Having listened to noise consistently for 15 years since, I return to Burned Mind and it still puts a big fucking smile on my face. Not for nostalgia’s sake but because it does everything well and sounds like no one else. The tracks are roughly laid out as abstract song/rock song/abstract song/rock song, and I personally I lean towards calling any one of the “rock” songs the best, but this is one of those where it all flows so nicely together. Perhaps the best amalgamation of the two and in some ways a hint towards creepier side of Wolf Eyes is “Rattlesnake Shake”. I assume for some reason it’s Dilloway who got the tapes to sound like a fucking rattle snake but whoever is responsible is a personal hero. That one oozes with such fucking menace! But you can’t ignore the killer “Stabbed in the Face” or “Black Vomit” which fucking rip and have actually made it into live shows in identifiable versions.

Coming in at under 40 minutes, Burned Mind is a concise statement from a group that released a lot of meandering material over the years. This is definitely their A game and it stands the test of time for that reason.

I’m under the impression that many here probably class Wolf Eyes as hipster noise or hippie US noise. I guess that’s because of their Sub Pop affiliation and lack of overtly hateful imagery or album titles? I’m sure someone can explain it to me. Hipster or not, because Sub Pop released Wolf Eyes albums I could buy at actual record stores, I was able get into more noise as a youngster. Purient’s widely available albums in the next few years had the same effect. And per the lack of “serious” or hateful imagery, I don’t really get it. It’s not like My Little Pony shit. Or maybe it gets bad marks because it’s the lack of tape hiss or analogue softness due to the good recording quality and proper mastering? As far as the hippie concerns, I’d be the first to say I liked doing drugs and listening to Wolf Eyes and Wolf Eyes probably liked doing drugs and listening to Wolf Eyes but what’s the problem with that? I guess an argument could be made that the drugged up Wolf Eyes fans of yore are the ancestors to the coke and dope addicted wannabe PE guys in the US now, so Wolf Eyes contributed to the moral decline of America’s youth?

Well the good news I think listening to Wolf Eyes these days is farthest thing from hip, so if you’re feeling adventurous, come and listen.
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« Reply #8031 on: August 06, 2020, 06:43:37 PM »

like the Maxwell arm chair guy getting his hair and brain blown out, stoned and terrified.
haha!! ma'am, i'll have some of what he's been smokin, please
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« Reply #8032 on: August 06, 2020, 10:35:13 PM »

Burned Mind is a stone cold classic and I hope the 'hipster noise' label has been put out to pasture.
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« Reply #8033 on: August 06, 2020, 10:36:56 PM »

Wolf Eyes – Burned Mind CD – Sub Pop 2004
I’m under the impression that many here probably class Wolf Eyes as hipster noise or hippie US noise. I guess that’s because of their Sub Pop affiliation and lack of overtly hateful imagery or album titles?

Not me - this era of Wolf Eyes was a big deal for me and I revisit it regularly and while I’d agree they certainly over saturated their market with some unremarkable material this holds up. I would cite the collab with Anthony Braxton as one of the most “influential” records of the 00’s for me.
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« Reply #8034 on: August 07, 2020, 09:25:59 AM »

Quote
Good news was that the man was reached for Special Interests magazine interview. He has been out of the scene for 20 years now and quit all the activities... unfortunately.

Found him ?! Spoke with him ? Is the interview done ? OK, he has quited, but is he OK with reissues ? Any more info please ? - Fuck, only the fact that he is alive and someone reached him, gives me hope !

Well, one of the Japanese "staff members of SI" found him and communications via snail mail has been conducted!

About Wolf Eyes:

I was just while ago listening that one Wolf Eyes lathe, what was cut on former 12" of theirs. I do prefer most of things many of these guys did solo, but WE has plenty of good things too in the first decade of millenium. I have not heard what they do nowadays.


Other playlist stuff...

DER HATERS ”Praifax” tape. 1988 tape from The Haters, modified name for German label but surprisingly song titles are in Finnish! I know there exists one Haters tape on Finnish label back in the 80’s, so he had some contact here. Label was operating very briefly and I don’t know anyone who has its releases.
Anyways, This tape, I would say is not the 1st generation copy, but the 80’s style of ”distrubutor dubs more copies” kind of thing. Sound is good, but I feel that there is probably notch more tape hiss than should be? If there would exists master tape - what a great reissue this would be!
Loop over loop of crashing, smashing, odd decayed sounds, wreckage, etc. Songs are fairly compact, and C-60 has plenty of them. Each songs is good, this would be perfect companion for In The Shade of Fire...

Exercise In Disgust ”Ashes to Ashes” tape. Early Troniks label stuff. c-60 of electronic noise and something bordering way more constructed industrial vibes. It feels as if it was improvised and creates without much plan, yet succeeding to create a lot of good moments and some less memorable ones.

Earlier same day, at work, blasted the opposite to this - not oldest of Troniks, but the newest! Re-issue of mighty Dead Body Love and damn that CD ruled! Could not even remember that recording was so crunchy and brutal.

V/A  ‎– Smorgasbird! In The Doghouse 2x7”. What a bizarre compilation. ULTRA, SMEGMA, STRENGTH THROUGH JOY and YEAST CULTURE. Story behind this release can be read from discogs. Double 7” are exactly same as Circusirus 3x7” comp - except without the third ep. Different art. Very comples hand made packaging, each edition of 100 different from another. As story goes, these were actually pressed already in first years of the 90’s but remained in storaged for ages until some copies actually made it to sale.
Sound of 7”s is good, but at least my 7”s get stuck on one groove in middle of side. Doesn’t seem to be intentional locked groove. Just some sort of fuck up in cutting of 7”. Except Yeast side clearly has locked groove in middle of side.
Each 7” has new label pasted-on. Of course Circusirus comp would be nice to own, but also this version seems to be very very scarsely available.
Experimental, totally manual (except Ultra’s drum machine), surreal noise impro textures.
One curious thing is, that one day, about half year ago, I was working at my record store, and John Hubbard shows up. He had no idea who I am, nor I knew him by the looks. So I just saw this older gentleman getting all excited about all the old industrial titles and Feral House books etc... Seemed just randomly coming into store. And that’s exactly what happened actually. But then found all these things he was part of. John Hubbard being the guy who did Strength Through Joy band & label. Put out that early Whitehouse book, wrote lyrics for The Sodality (ita) 12”, played with GPO, Christoph Heeman  and other industrial veterans. Design for NWW etc.  So we talked for long time, and turned out we knew many of the same people - but not eachother. And also turns out man lives in Finland, just few hours from Lahti. Back in recording experimental sounds etc. He told lots of brilliant stories from the 80’s industrial network and his travels in Europe. Maybe he’ll drop by sometime again when knowing there exists stores selling experimental sounds in Finland... hah...

ETHNIC ACID / PUTREFIER split tape
+ two ETHNIC ACID tapes
UK noise that seems to be unlikely to be reissued, so one could confirm it is worth of big bucks to grab the originals if found somewhere!
This collaboration just puts together some of the greatest things from both projects. Think of early Putrefier in style of those tapes re-issued on Industrial Recollections mixed with less guitar oriented Ethnic Acid than double CD anthology on Industrial Recollections.
They certainly have electronics and effects here, but all the most memorable and striking things are the use of physical objects. Good source sounds that are processed with good efx and side long massive tracks that are not really power electronics, nor in lines of the 90’s harsh noise, but... something I tend to loosely lump into category of ”industrial noise”. You got the certain type of atmosphere, a bit of structure, but no songs, no music. Just great stuff.

Ethnic Acid double CD anthology includes il Papa tape, and most of Sexodus, but b-side of that one is not on anthology. Perhaps simpler and noisier - so depending on your taste it could be rated either way - but I conclude: great tracks!
I guess one could find some samples of this project from youtube. Certainly worth to check out.
Birthbiter label (Putrefier) releases.

V/A NICE NOISE vol 1 tape
Nice Noise comp series put out by Nihilistic (netherlands) in 80’s. First volume is from 1987. This copy is from the 90’s, straight from the label, so it is legit, but the almost 10 years earlier cover was in color tones.
There are few observations:
1) it rules. Just brilliant sound of the time.
2) Misogny is misspelled. This is possibly earliest existsing Keith Brewer noise, Misogyny.. That’s how it it is spelled in some of catalogues and there is those full length tapes he did. Methods and sounds are nearly uniform to Taint. Misogyny was on volumes 1 & 2 of series and Taint featured in 3rd.
3) how much I regret not getting *everything* from this label when he was still running it active. So much stuff, and many not even listed in discogs.
Zincken is one of less celebrated hereos of the tape underground. This of his Idealistc idiot 10 volume c-60 tape comp series. Damn! If one would have option to have all that stuff now available, it would give really neat look to the late 80’s tape scene noise/experimental/industrial.

Smell & Quim ‎– Pro Celebrity Mutual Masturbation tape
Been trying to find certain things, but found... other things. Smell & quim pretty damn rare tape. Small metal box, on Kubitsuri tapes label. Really good tape from the mighty S&Q!

Going next into tape deck is odd 3 band split, which is not even really that. cover says it’s G-Hörsturz / Gestörte Nachbarn / richard ramirez split BUT to fill up the tape sides, label put spanish noise/grind of El Kaso Urkijo and on other side stuff of Outermost to get tape filled completely. Hah! As cover design indicates, more punk/DIY spirit here, and this also means that tape seems to be very very very scarsely in circulation. Beauty of this DIY tape trade focused noise was, that it wasn’t about money, but about were you there or not.

SPECULUM FIGHT "Electronic Air Purifiers" 2xtape
There was neat Noisextra podcast episode about Speculum Fight cd. Yesterday was going through pile of stuff, and found unopened, old Banned Productions double tape. Probably have had this 20 years or something. No really excuses why it was opened only now. Better late than never!
One tape is endless loop tape that plays tasty drone as long as you wish. I think there are various different loops, possibly even all different on every tape that was issued? This one is so smoothly playing, if one would not see it is loop tape, could probably listen for 45+ min and then wondering why this tape won’t end?
Now virginity of the other tape also gone. Two sides are different. One more ”electronics” other more harsh. Not THAT different, but again, neat good old noise tape! Got to love that this Banned Prod tape was possible to open without totally damaging the object.

ARVID TUBA tape
Arvid Tuba is not name you hear mentioned too often, but this particular tape, I have no idea what it should be called. I have vague recollection of getting it from ZERO CABAL in the 90’s, but it is actually Nihilistic release. Folded sleeve, that has ”unreleased material” worth of 30 mins on A-side, and then B-side has tape, which is also rare ....or worthless enough that nobody listed that release to discogs!
What we have here, is the tape scene home made 80’s industrial-noise from Sweden. Clumsy, raw, often amateurish, and perhaps for the reason this is never hailed among the landmarks of swedish industrial.... But is it good? It is!
If someone like VOD would put out Arvid Tuba vinyl box set, it would probably be as relevant as many of their boxes are, hah. Would not sell out instantly, but would fit in the discography just fine!

Dead Body Love tape of Lazy Squid Rekkids... something I talked with bunch of people in recent times. Been listening handful of Lazy Squid items, including the ROTTEN PIECE stuff. I wonder how come that band is absolutely never mentioned when texas harsh noise is mentioned?
Dead Body Love, of course Italian stuff. This tape is not as good as the CD reissue on Troniks/Chondritic, but for the fanatics, it is mandatory dosage of non-layered, single minded, straight to the point crunchy noise.

Now on stereos, half way of the B.side of Filth & Violence 001 tape! Bizarre Uproar. Some people like, some people hate, but the the way people know the ”Finnish noise” is vastly to thank (or blame) to Bizarre Uproar.
Back in the day, mid 90’s, there was already ”stories” of mr. Bizarre Uproar. He was considered to be rather odd character. First time I traveled to meet him, he arrived with his big brother, picked me up from infamous Helsinki whore infested street. We went to his place. Instantly some good old ”VHS trade” culture stuff was playing on TV, including women and eels. His rather brutal brother had baseball bat in his hand, and kept hitting his hand with it, like in preparing for.... something. We were browsing some Japanese bondage books, looking at the eel vhs, and listening some noise. If one would want to put the feeling of old school finn noise in the nut shell, that’s about it. This first Filth & Violence tape captures the feeling of all sorts of dirt, but not only malicious. Also heavily inspired and creative wibes, I recall it was exactly this visit when mr. BU handed the extra copy of The Gerogerigegege - zero songs flexi 7” he had. After displaying wide variety of trophies Juntaro sent him in early 90’s.... Era, very different from now...

and the latest things has been often about 30+ years old nasty noise from Keith Brewer.
The very first edition of Mysogyny tape is on Big Body Parts label what jeph jerman of Hands To operated in 80’s! I have the european edition on Nihilistic..
With all that Japanese noise being on SI podcasts, there is actually plan to introduce variety of KB's work from the 80's till the last works he did when still alive. Including unreleased material. Lets see when it might be ready...
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« Reply #8035 on: August 07, 2020, 05:12:43 PM »

I’d intended to lump the following three Entre Vifs commentaries into one long post, but on reflection it’s probably better to give each its own space.


See bottom of this post for digest commentary.

Entre Vifs ‎– Kohle+Stahl
Only Zorïn is credited for work on Kohle+Stahle, but clearly he had a lot of help. Kritz, mini-Throbber, mini-Electrolyre, Rammer, Kratz, Stumophon, Throbbler, mini-Charcutron, Rikrokoïd, Bass Crackler. Just to espy the heavy duty apparatus, parts thereof so fetchingly displayed on the inner sleeve, is sufficient to get the blood pumping, the mind boggling, the earholes widening in anticipation of massive cacophony to come.

Let's emphasize for the moment the two words, massive, cacophony. There's just so much crap shoveled into this one that it's hard to get a grip on the sheer scale in play. Layer upon layer, machine upon machine, Kritz upon Kratz upon Rammer upon Throbbler‎– with excited dash of Sturmophon and Rikrokoïd on the side. Metal machine mutations mass together with a concentrated density that blots out any sense of making progress, or indeed, of sense, the sheer eye-watering pressure fixing attention not upon what was or will be but upon the singular, ill-ordered, moment. And all flapping about with little-restrained abandon, as though at the behest of self-same singular directive: make buncha fucken noise. Perhaps at some fundamental level the machines obey their own internal logic, giving rise in their amplified twistings and metal stressings to new and alien structures, crude hulking deformities, industrial monstrosities, strangely beautiful, horrific, nightmarish, ecstatic, sonic-sensual worlds within worlds within…

Alright chief, back down to earth. One thing this is not, is particularly harsh and nor, by Entre Vifs standards, particularly out of control. Perhaps, even, in the singular developments of the singular human agent- master Zorïn at your service- a certain degree of dedicated focus, sucking attentions deep into sonic-sensual host. Heavy electronic thrummings steadily soften the blow, rich buzzing waves gently warm the underbed, outlying metal-on-metal whangs strategically conjugate the frame.


There are three separate tracks designated here, but leaving out the lead-ins and lead-outs they could all flow together as a single, epic, piece. Le Coeur Machine could be the mini-epic, taking up the whole A-side and progressing from more free-form banging and hammering to more densely saturated electronic molestations. Not, again, that you’d really notice. There’s just too much going on in there to settle attentions on any given direction. Metallic scraps and squiggles scrape haphazard about an open-aired echo chamber as wheezy singe-waves encircle the perimeter. Then the due drop of heavily distorted metal-percussive, somewhat ominous in tone, singe-waves dropping away to hint at further depths to plunge then washing back with something akin to alarmed pique. As the myriad elements congregate in a reverberant haze, a distinct psychedelic atmosphere begins to emerge, whitened backwash feeding back into murkier depths, suggesting at moments the possibility of more climactic melodramas driving a classic reach for the cosmos.

By the halfway point the entire field is consumed by deeply churning panoramic deluge, borderline whitewashed electro-sheen flashing across the skies, echoed blisses tumbling into cavernous abysses– but still the unceasing effort to ram heavy duty percussives against the grain. At climactic point the second, a sudden breakdown into much reduced scrap-heavy frapping and whapping, bare scrapes cutting through near silent intervals, and then the slow build to the expected heftier strains.

The heftier strains come in two parts. First, an arid over-reach of bone dry crashing and banging meets slow-panned air-raid fuzz-warble, caustic anterior frictions burning holes in the chaotic pile up of industrial-strength machination. Total breakdown again and in the aborted aftermath a heavy, steady recompiling of resources. Now the incoming Rammers and Rikrokoïds, throbblering and cracklering with renewed energies, launching full-up second assault with no signs of letting up. As dense alchemical deformations roil the skies, multitudes of feisty metallic stabbings and pricklings meet surging buzzes of flattened oscilla-ream, fusing together with periodic drops of wide-bodied thunder-heave in a final push for critical mass. And finally, caught up in sonic-sensual bliss, the dawning recognition of the clarity of vision driving the work to its structurally sound conclusion.


Un jour comme aujourd'hui (La dernière coulée) comes several times laced with the downward inclined atmosphere of low-key electronic drizzle-brood. Into this drop the mutant strains of heavy duty junk machines, punching for maximal pressures in very short order. While I’d still be somewhat strained to shoved this in with the classically harshnoise contingent, the influence would have to be acknowledged. The field is simply too full, to bursting, with masses of electrified throbbing, gutter-dragged rumbling, psyche-washed scathing, to the point of tempting reference the burgeoning Hiroshi Hasegawa discog. What holds me back is the acoustic metal-on-metal lacerations driving the harsher textured inclinations, elements of which Hasegawa & co would only ever have been too ready to drown in incapacitating storms of swirling psyche-bliss. In the closing minutes, the overloaded frequencies break apart, start sucking in air, admitting in the spaces a purely physical sense of violent frapping, bashing, scraping.


Spirit of Rosie includes in the title a direct link to the wiki entry on Rosie The Riveter, quote a cultural icon of World War II, representing the women who worked in factories and shipyards during World War II. How this translates, in the initial moments: almost pure whitewashed blasts of sleek, glinting, chromium-coated scorch-waves. Soon a familiar fattened buzzing undercurrent snakes through the channel pan as the equally familiar air-raid insinuations whoop and holler at the outskirts. In the fleeting attempts to draw air, labored gasps and rasps reveal much more heavily burdened clusters of junk-scrapped shriek ‘n blister knifing at the walls. At a late and critical juncture, the shrieks ‘n blisters retreat, the fattened buzz piddles inauspiciously along the floor, to set the stage for the final showcase. And what more could it be than wide-open feature-spread celebration of quite the riveting metal-whanging-metal rage-out, the drama accelerating to its excruciating peak, the warmth all but scalded off to output a satisfyingly stringent series of whamme, ker-blamme, thank you madame.


Digest spew:
Entre Vifs ‎– Kohle+Stahl
Master Zorïn on a solo joint, but not so fast say the machines. Metal machine mutations mass together with a concentrated density that blots out any sense of making progress, or indeed, of sense, the sheer eye-watering pressure fixing attention not upon what was or will be but upon the singular, ill-ordered, moment. Perhaps at some fundamental level the machines obey their own internal logic, giving rise to new and alien structures, crude hulking deformities, industrial monstrosities, strangely beautiful, horrific, nightmarish, ecstatic. Nevertheless, a certain degree of dedicated focus, sucking attentions deep into deeply churning panoramic deluge, borderline whitewashed electro-sheen flashing across the skies, echoed blisses tumbling into cavernous abysses, unceasing efforts to ram heavy duty percussives against the wide-bodied thunder-heaves pushing for critical mass. Caught up in sonic-sensual bliss, the dawning recognition of the clarity of vision driving the work to its structurally sound conclusion.
« Last Edit: August 07, 2020, 05:21:37 PM by Bloated Slutbag » Logged

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« Reply #8036 on: August 07, 2020, 05:14:45 PM »

See bottom of this post for digest commentary.

Entre Vifs ‎– Offrande Et Partage
Since the glorious reemergence of their new progressive bruitist unit, Entre Vifs have been merrily frapping away with unquiet abandon. With their seventh such release to date– leaving out the recent no-the-less-noteworthy issues from their première unité bruitisteOffrande Et Partage could well represent the best yet. Or at least, the most open-aired. Shitloads of frapping, but plenty of airs in which to insinuate the frappes, their many-hammered contours clearly delineated in the wide-open spaces of the celebrated Noisecraft Workshop.

Recognize in the open spaces a potentially huge dynamic range, or in the frappily-textured convergence and divergence of component parts the potentiality of that dynamic range. Get down and dirty with the volume knob and whole new worlds of sound emerge with every subtle variation. Apply a limited degree of pressure and enjoy the smooth wash of almost lilting acousmatique textures. Crank the shit feel your eyes water in sympathy with the paint stripping the walls, little tufts of smoke rising slowly from the utterly scorched ‘holes.

Entre Vifs were, of course, not unaware of this simple (albeit boring) truth. From the liner notes to L'Ordre Par Le Bruit,
Quote
Do you want to hear some cute pieces of electro-acoustic music? You just have to listen to this record at low level. And thus, castrate our sound. It’s easy. And innocuous. Middle-class entertainment. But if you’re not afraid to taste real NOISE POWER. Play it at HIGH VOLUME ONLY.

Yes, well, I suppose the silence of John Cage is overrated. But perhaps it might here afford some insight into Offrande Et Partage. In the spaces between the sounds, one could say, the mystery is somewhat taken out of it, rather as might in the castrating domestication of the volume knob, appealing to the nominally-reasoned dictats of perverted brain keen to pretend sage understanding of the non-stop cacophony of bruitist shite wildly slamming into the earholes. Emphasis on the wildly. Lest one forget, all of the shit’s performed live, raw cut from sessions that presumably go on forever, and ever (sessn’s 49B through to 51A in this case, for pervs keeping score).


Holidays In Stahlstadt starts, as is apt, with a bang. A clearly defined sort of bang, in the classic metal-whanging-metal mold, very slightly distorted in wide-open space marginally occupied by scuzzy amplified hum. Then the duo starts to get busy– but not too busy! Unlike much of the recent work, the duo performs here in a way that actually sounds like, well, a duo, the one feeling out the other, so to speak, the whole never really approaching the oft-otherwise-exceeded critical mass of dense cacophonous frappage. I mean, the shit is cacophonous as almighty fuck, but laid out in a more deliberate or even– say it– cohesive way, such that one might, at a distance, begin to appreciate the progressive layings-on of the variegated frappe-ker-smack attack.

Bang the first echoes dryly across the channel pan. Then another, and another. Bassier double-pronged delay action thudTHUDthudTHUDthudTHUD livens things up and before you know it harsher scrap-driven electronic scorches significantly harshen the equation. By a minute and thirty the scorches are hitting solid state, and if the shit were not almost immediately reigned in you’d think we were headed for purely whitewashed harshfest. Now’s when it gets reeeal good, the harsher leavenings regularly freed to screech in between measured deliverings of heavy duty scrap-metal whanging. Abbreviated moments of agitated faux silence are immediately clobbered to shit under multi-pronged hammering of full-on bombast, escaped snatches of processed radio, voice, choir sneaking through the confusion. At the surface, it would be hard to make sense of these semi-predictable now-you-harsh it-now-you-don’t moments, but by the ninth minute or so, brought to you by a furious exchange of melodramatic gong-thunk cum incandescent scathe-scrape, the terrible logic or deliberation of it all starts to thunk home. Or so the ill-reasoned dictats of perverted brain might pretend.

At twelve minutes the heat is intense. So too the willingness to pull back and freshen the field for renewed onslaught. But here the onslaughts, plural, are rather more sustained, the panned drag of crinkled shredder-grate filling the spaces in between with straight-up metal-bashing hack, slash, smash, alarmed switchback of outboard motors revving on the L-R express. Eighteen minutes and additional metal-bashing resources are put to task in driving a more fully-loaded density, freeze-whistles and all, breaking up, breaking down, cobbling back together again, and again and again, the attention ever, um, there, on edge, in the moment.


Red Fruits seems at first a much mellower affair, eerie whine-drone and seashell backwash underscoring thunks of a considerably less brutal, rumpled, persuasion. Soon, however, the massed cacophony comes on in force, revisiting a now-familiar set of textures and tropes. Plenty of abrasive metal-on-metal friction, if rather less clearly defined in feeding-back washes of sometimes murked ambient haze. Plenty of shit breaking down to the faux silence of lost decibels, plenty of subsequent cobbling of shit back together. Bongo-ish oil drums bounce through gated clearings, slam headlong into exploding tin-can confettis, and crumble together in brittle, minimally distorted, drawls. Dangling cables twang in the crowded spirals, stringy drawn-out zips that would suggest a guitar or two were it not for a much more clearly defined slamming-down of successive heavy-handed ker-thunk. At one point it sounds as though someone has dropped a massive echoing gong into the midst. This is just, frankly, a mess, but a very compelling sort of mess– a trainwreck really– drawing the listener into seemingly bottomless abysses before peeling back the curtain and lacerating the brain with exquisitely raw shredded-cable flaying, meanwhile that damn bongo-ish DUMdumdum almost, but does not quite, pretend to rock a righteous chugga-chugga of attention-stealing derailment.


A Benevolent Storm Front gets things back on something vaguely resembling track, brewing in semi-methodical fashion toward its proverbial ill-winded benevolence. Reverberant double-thudded thunders strike, one after the other, in tightly managed explosive bursts, their intermittent percussions safely holding the line. Now the coast is clear for disheveled iron-filings to zipper their way through to what begins to resemble warped tape-manipulation, perhaps in their ascending scrapes to ape the whistling of metal-tinged wind through rattling rafters. To this, grizzled fuzz-currents lend an electrified ambiance, and before long, yes, down slam the wailing scrap-metal whangs. Whangs upon whangs of dela-delayed thwacking leave bloody, liquefied trails, curdling into rumpled sheets of dry-shredded crackle.

The process repeats several times, always in new and odd-angled configurations, barest silent intervals burst open, slashed, bashed, saturated, crudely ripped apart again, again, again, buried in the metal-junk pile-on. At each climactic peak a necessary drawing down of pressure, the whole heaving monstrosity moving with something like billowing grace, continuously building, cresting, sighing. Thus even with the strategic departure of the inaugural thunder-strikes, the whole of it stays the course, never quite dissolving into cacophonies of chaos, rolling smoothly forward to the next meta-machine maelstrom.


Sharp echoing metal whangs, freeze-whistles and badly mangled junk-scrapes announce the fourth and final battle, Chaorgia Pantomachia (Your Attention Please). Nothing we haven’t heard in the preceding trio of tracks, but, um, more of it. There are the familiar spaces in between the frappes, but here the spaces are almost completely filled with the rough and ragged atmosphere of gritty ghost echoes: metal machine machinations burning through stratosphere, duking it out with filthed dregs of shredded electro-furz. It is as though the three prior offerings were mashed together in a huge cavernous warehouse, accented in part by strident vocalizations whose message is completely lost in the massed cacophonous mess. Pretty much full-up sustained attack for twenty-two straight minutes.

The correct commencement of cacophony kicks off come the second minute. Cascading collisions of metal-junk collapse overtake the more even-keeled frappe-ological distributions, driving in their wake a more robust concatenation of ruptured whitewall distortions and more frantically hammered violations, the abrasive textures achieving in their scouring friction an undeniably harsh consistency. By seven minutes it sounds as though voices are getting in on the action, but the action is sufficiently maxed as to serve the imagination any number of fancies. A very slight pulling back at around the thirteenth minute, from which abundant layers of detail emerge. Heavy-handed physical bashings, gritted grinding of wide-panned gears, the agitated zither of steel files, cyclopic rotating oscillations, frazzled snatches of voice, garbage cans hurled against rickety scaffold. But really, given the multitude of the elements involved, any sense of “pulling back” versus sustained all-out carnage is primarily a function of where your plant your volume knob. At the correct levels we’re talking somewhere between regular old brutally harsh and exceedingly brutally harsh, the distance between which the brain just shuts the fuck down and surrenders its sorry ‘holes to the dense cacophonous frappe-ologie.


Digest spew:
By far the most open-aired representative of the project’s new progressive bruitist unit debuting round about 2010. That’s almost thirty years since the première unité bruitiste first assaulted ‘hole. So you still get the requisite shitloads of frapping, but also plenty of airs in which to insinuate the frappes, their many-hammered contours clearly delineated in wide-open space. In the open spaces a potentially huge dynamic range, equally so the potentiality of that dynamic range. The duo actually sounds like a duo, the one feeling out the other, the whole never really approaching the oft-otherwise-exceeded critical mass of dense cacophonous frappage. I mean, the shit is cacophonous as almighty fuck, but laid out in a more cohesive way, such that one might, at a distance, begin to appreciate the progressive layings-on of the variegated frappe-ker-smack attack. Question is, at a distance, is the shit even worth appreciating? Get your filthy preoccupations in there, m’boyo, revel in the cascading collisions of metal-junk collapse, surrender thy sorry ‘holes to the dense cacophonous frappe-ologie.
« Last Edit: August 07, 2020, 06:01:48 PM by Bloated Slutbag » Logged

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« Reply #8037 on: August 07, 2020, 05:16:28 PM »

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Entre Vifs x L'eclipse Nue ‎– L'eclipse Vive
L'eclipse Vive presents split-collab effort from two projects that would not on first blush share much in common, save perhaps that both are well worth your attention. The preeminent frappe-ologie of Entre Vifs would bear no introduction. Densely dogpiled heavy duty metal-machine mutations, frapping en masse to achieve, at the appropriate levels, a massive punishing brutality that consumes the senses, any sense of development– or indeed, of sense in general– completely obliterated in the massed concatenation of metal-on-metal cacophony ever edging to explode its critical scrap-mass. L'eclipse Nue, the brainchild of Hartford-based Daniel Sine, is a whole other bag of frapping implements. Mr Sine brings a broad palate of ideas and instrumentation, to output a diverse field of sounds, some of them brutally punishing others quietly introspective, laid out with a calculated care and attention to structurally sound unfolding. Whatever the differences between the two projects, a good and I think successful effort was made to integrate the work in a way flows together quite nicely. Brutal as all fuckly, but nicely.


Entre Vifs lead off with Incidents I (session 50A-1), a direct carry-over from the previous year’s Offrande et Partage– whose concluding piece is in fact culled from an immediately adjacent session (50A). This one goes on for a “mere” eight minutes twenty, and goes quite some distance in furthering the porous relationship with open space expounded in OeP. Remote clusters of more and less densely dogpiled sound incidents amplify the ongoing de-mystification process, offering unflattering exposé of the multitudinous means of production. The means: obviously, first, a heck of a lot of metal-on-metal frapping, smacking, scraping, sawing. Rounded out with more mild mannered dinging, donging and bonging. Much of it subject to the minimal intrusions of slow-mo double-action delay. Not wanting to get left out of the action, a semi-coherent series of agitated electronic wheedles burrows through the pummeling heart of Scrapheap Central.

Incidents I opens in gritted, grimy airs, nasty little metal implements scouring the center as heftier bass-heavy bonks bounce around the outskirts of the channel pan. Shredded scrapes meet distorted saw of iron files, outward bashing starting into repetitive double-delayed crud-bonk, zips of metal friction to resemble high-velocity, wind-lacerating, whip-action. The familiar grind of brittle gears abrades the edges and then the drop of the first straight-ahead shriek of electrified furz-bristle. None of these incidents really dominates and nor till about three minutes or so do they appear particularly inclined to pile on. This is exceedingly deceptive as by three minutes forty the inevitable concatenation of scrap-heaped elements is getting downright frenzied. Controlled, methodical, but yes, frenzied. At this point first inkling that the initial decision to crank the volume knob from the outset was probably not to a healthy earhole served. Thinly piercing metal abrasions are principally to be responsible for the harsher inclinations, but the electronics are sufficiently frazzled to promote more red-lined washes of convulsive singe-wheedle. By six minutes the ‘holes detect, just at the perimeter,  an emergence of higher-end whine that steadies into a sustained, wheely-mouthed, howl. All hell-in-potentia drops away, leaving the now-plaintive howl to set-off, rather dramatically, the ever present percussive thud and thunk, threatening to escalate before the sullen retreat into a truly miserable L'eclipse Nue vocal.


The Same Eye Leading To The Same Place seems an appropriately defeatist title for the defeatist vocals spewing forth. Frail, garbled, as though filtered down the phone lines, the increasingly unhinged ranting is barely discernible beneath chipped and stuttered fever-bleat that is joined soon by a robust mix of ill-connected jack-hum-curdle and what could be the whitened blister of contact-mic’d scrap-bristlings against seashell suctioned feedback jitter. Defeated at last, the voice drops out just as higher-ended whine appears ready to signal heightened dramas, fading away in turn to make way for straight-laced feedback surge, driving the whole into full and proper destabilizations of classically minded harsh. And not to be harsh, but you just know it ain't gonna last. Sustained feedback rises to dominate, pushing the competing elements almost completely out of the frame. And damned if that damned voice ain't still wailing about, albeit in rather muted, processed capacities. A secondary rasp of whitened wash presents the possibility of renewed harshery and suddenly– the floor is pulled straight out from under, plunging deep into drear atmos of softly padded bass oscillation. Liquescent static charges prickle along the edges, hushed gasps complement stray mewls and whimpers, a convincing portrait of abject dejection deftly embellished with disembodied scrapes and scratches seeking final termination in depressive stasis. And damned if that damned voice still ain’t-


SmashSmashsmashsmash announce the insistent hammering metals of Incidents II (session 51B). This one picks up pretty much where the first set of auricular incidents leaves off. So not much build before we’re dogpiled into the shambolic thick of cacophonous metal-on-metal hell.

Emphasis on the shambolic thick of cacophonous metal-on-metal hell. I’d like to disengage here slightly with a confession of sorts. This fucking commentary– or set of three fucking commentaries, together with Kohle+Stahl and Offrande Et Partage– is literally taking me for-fucking-ever. First there was the problem of accidentally allowing OeP to utterly annihilate the hearing, necessitating a pause of some days to give the earholes a much needed opportunity to recover their ability to fucking hear. (And I kind of doubt that will ever really happen at this point but I digress.) Then every time I’d complete the Entre Vifs entries I’d, say, hop in the car, blast the EV, and be like, WHAT THE FUCK?! This is completely at odds with what I just wrote! Now the following observation may be at least partially true of most anything committed to a recording medium, but in this case the playback configuration just completely fucks with what the ‘holes report to the brain. Completely. I might as well be listening to a completely different album. That and of course the ever shifting possibilities attending the tendency– mine– to constantly finesse the volume knob. Like I uh just can’t keep my greasy hands off it. The confusion sits somewhere in between buncha fucken noise and buncha noisy sounds that could, in their more and less shambolic concatenations, occasionally be mistaken for noise. Needless to say this kind of frustration is the stuff of which harshdork dreams are made. We now return to our regularly scheduled spewage.

Where was I? Oh yes. Shambolic thick of cacophonous metal-on-metal hell. Lots of le smash, le bash, le whang. Sawing, scouring, scraping, dinging, donging. Getting pretty frenzied in the now-familiar controlled-frenzy-spastic sorta way. Here a good dosage of mid-range electronic fuzzing and buzzing fills in the wide-open spaces, at points resembling a jackhammer or rivet gun pounding through the massed disassemblage. At quite a few intervals, open spaces are cleared to permit just a single isolated incident of scrape, grind, or ker-blam. Then the subsequent pile on. The pile-ons are apt to get intense, suggestive of full-metal cluster-fuckfrenzy, but never getting fully caught up in the moment, always splintering apart again. With two minutes to go an arched stringy whine seasons full-in-bodied steel-scaffold scrap-collapse, heftier thunks and clunks clambering at the hard-panned Ls and Rs. In the final minute a surprising blurt of distortion hints at final push for harshnoise purity, only to cut out to deadened amp hum and spare zips of metal filing friction.


Now’s time for Each One A Witness, the centerpiece in every meaning. L'eclipse Nue would seem here to have incorporated a few isolated Entre Vifsesque incidents of rusted-metal screech and honk, but these are loosely structured around moments of subdued tension in a way that recollects, um, early Nurse With Wound. Insect & Individual Silenced sorta NWW. The impression is only reinforced in the use of often sporadic whispered vocals, and in the drawn-out drone of vaguely tibetan-sounding horns. Fighting hard against these impressions, much heavier bulgings of distorted bludgeon-tronics scrunch onto the scene, sometimes accompanied by their acoustic hosts, sometimes dropping out completely, and sometimes driving massed clusters of richly abundant thunder-sludge. This latter comes on in force at the center part of this centerpiece, whinge-ing ghost elements straining the edges as steel-wool spittle-fizz bristles along the floor. A slight rupture at around seven minutes and a dip into the tubular contours of slimmed-down acoustic funnel, then a second hint toward forceful deluge. This time the deluge does not quite come on in force, but rather plays around with squawking feedback tones and honks, lickety-splittles lathering up the outer walls. In the concluding minutes an overarching rise of ghostly bass-hovers contrast sharply with the rather savage-sounding central scathing principle, working itself up into quite the lather before calmly winking out.


Spasmotronics is a good title for this final Entre Vifs entry, a never-settled over-run of smasmodic jerking epilepsy. This is taken from a much earlier session (34A), which would fit it chronologically in with 2018’s Ontologie. Expect a much busier rushing about from moment to moment, much less of the open space found in the two Incidents, above. Expect, too, much in the way of alternately warbling, curdling, and bleating electronics, sliding at their most spasmotronic peaks into lazered fits of squiggly rubberized squeegee-wheedle. The shit kicks off, appropriately, with wormy rubbered frictions duly ripped apart under the unhurried deliberations of calmly administered metal-on-metal Crash-Bash-McSmash. Then, of course, the inevitable smasmotronicking of things. An erratic trade-off of delicate scrap-creaks agitates against more heftily frapped junk-bludgeon as buzzed electronic dis-connections feed into genuinely squealing insinuation, carrying forward the first flirtation with harsh. A pull-back into corrugated distortion-sheets and soon yet another hack ‘n smack attack drives more pierced rips of crisply gleaming steel stabs. Gong-like reverberations house tin-can clatter and the heftier dropping of full-on ker-thunk.

The pacing here is incredibly disheveled, pulling back and then squealing into rages of spastic scrap-heap scatter-slash, with much emphasis placed on the latter. If there are pauses it would more seem to be in gathering breath for the next attack, each one seemingly more full-to-bursting, more drawn-out, more suffused with electrified shriek-bleed spirals, more spiked with savagely piercing ice-stabs. In the flirtation with the volume knob, it is possible to discern along the lower curve a distinctly bleep-heavy discourse of curdled alarm calls. Apply to the knob a firm but gentle pressure and perceive the more earhole-smoking interlocutions of full metal pierce. Toward the ten minute mark, a series of reverberant lower-end gong-tones de-harshes the edges, slowly drawing down the glistening spasmodics whilst drawing in more considered pummelings of thunk and thud. In the final minute now, ensconced in echoing scrap hole, unadorned hacks and slashes flat-out refusing to relinquish their claim to spasticity.


Copper And Spit is possibly the most straight-ahead cut on the disc. Feedback-driven hack-patewy which sees L'eclipse Nue trading filth-bludgered crud-walls with keening screech and wail. No sense of purpose, development or structure with this one, more a constant push and pull inside a well-girded range of texture. In other words, good opportunity revel in the harsh of it. Feedback is ever present, but it vacillates among myriad refinements, sometimes in drawn-out whines, other times shrieking in rage, flipping and diving through murkier channels before stuttering overtop densely saturated distorto-grits. At two minutes the field is positively brimming with harsh particles, stringy bleats and screeches underscoring the very live-in-the-moment play of elements. At three minutes the filth-bludgerings are hacked into percussive bursts, slamming down with unhurried deliberation before pursuing face-down dive into more puritannical shit-venues. The shit-venues split back into the divergent feedback-bludger dialog, sometimes escalating to ‘hole-piercing peak, sometimes dropping into sludge-bludgered bilge-waste, periodic percussive bursts successfully unhinging attentions. At six minutes the final escalation, aiming for the skies, alarmed shriek-layers soundly burrowing into harsh.


And what better end than the title track, a collaborative orgy of perv-visions coalescing in the naked brutality of the living moment. In the first moment, it is Entre Vifs, the familiar double-delayed choking bark of minimally distorted metal-on-metal grind. But moments later perspective shifts, transported into huge open space consumed by deeply resonant frappe-ologies. The metal-machine mutations are out in force, but so too incoming washes of windswept sussuration, as though the ghosts in the machines were swirling through a self-reinforcing echo chamber. At intervals the washes peak into whinge-pleated hint of faintest drone, falling away to admit a more frappe-ological concatenation of relentless acoustic banging. Dramatic flair here, reminiscent of Kohle+Stahl, heavy, steady, bass thunder meting out a measured periodicity, drawing attention deep into swelling depths. At the same time, the more robust sound palate trembles among the fleshly folds of wide-bodied bottom end, enveloping the field with atmospheric clouds of hazy ambient flatulence. This has the odd effect of making it all sound harsher than it actually is, a carefully-contained violence constantly collapsing in on itself, never really threatening to rip through ‘hole. Sans the clearly cut contour of harsh grating scrap-implements to derail attentions, the storms start to pitch into blackened psychedelic spirals, the mindsear picturing Hiroshi Hasegawa standing in the corner, arms folded, nodding in approval.

So let's just tick the boxes. Dense, cavernous, cacophonous, massed machine mutations drowning under the melted weight of their own superheated frictions. Here's one more box to tick: structure. You would not think to look for it. The sheer mass of constantly mutating frapping, smacking, cracking and hacking all but guarantees that the attention run itself silly, subsumed in the endlessly competing movements of the moment. But pull back a bit and drift from on high, spot the slowly billowing crests and sighs, the deftly assembled scaffolds of abrasive junk-scrap whanging, the careful breaking down into multi-various component parts, the subsequent nose-dives through holy metal-machine hell in seeking the next launching gate. Pull back a bit, never losing sight of where you’ve been, where you’re headed, and in that critical peak of critical awareness, the living moment is lost.

May the Force Of The Frappe be with you.


Digest spew:
Nicely de-ranged exposition of two very different visions. Of the first, densely dogpiled heavy duty metal-machine mutations, frapping en masse to achieve a massive punishing brutality that consumes the senses, any sense of development– or indeed, of sense in general– completely obliterated in the massed concatenation of metal-on-metal cacophony ever edging to explode its critical scrap-mass. Of the second, a broad palate of ideas and instrumentation outputs a diverse field of sounds, some of them brutally punishing others quietly introspective, laid out with a calculated care and attention to structurally sound unfolding. Entre Vifs continues to further the porous relationship with open space expounded in Offrande Et Partage, remote clusters of more and less densely dogpiled sound incidents amplifying the pummeling heart of Scrapheap Central. L'eclipse Nue loosely structures its developments around carefully regulated intervals of subdued tension, prone to vacillate among myriad refinements, as keen to shriek with rages of distorted bludgeon-tronics as to mope in dejected states of abject misery. The two come together in the end with a collab that perfectly meets and ruptures expectation, successfully subsuming scrutinies in the naked brutality of the living moment.
« Last Edit: August 08, 2020, 10:50:17 AM by Bloated Slutbag » Logged

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« Reply #8038 on: August 10, 2020, 10:39:00 AM »


DAVID GILDEN - 'TEMPORARY SEDATION' CD

I haven't heard everything he did, but of what I have this is probably my favourite so far. If you liked 'Texas Chainsaw Dopefiend' you'll love it.It does everything other Gilden releases seem to do but goes further, and explores much grimmer, colder terrain.Parts of it , like where aggravated barking dogs appear are just plain unnerving. I could wax lyrical about these recordings & give you flowery descriptions of what it sounds like or compare it to the other releases of his i've heard, but just do yourself a favour and buy it! If possible get yourself a decent pair of headphones to listen to it, as like other Gilden recordings it has a huge amount going on so you'll want to spend time with it to appreciate how well put together it is.These recordings seem to update themselves with each listen, and I keep noticing things I didn't the previous time.I'm hoping other releases of his are reissued, compiled, or given this kind of treatment on CD for a wider audience. The release itself is extremely well presented, and has some good information inside to give the listener some background on the recordings.
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« Reply #8039 on: August 14, 2020, 04:59:57 PM »

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Savage Gospel – Savage Gospel (White Centipede Noise, cd reissue)
Psyche dudes do psyche noise. But, like harsh. Harsh as in it flatulates, a lot. Fat distorted rupturings of the wind, duly blowing holes in the ozone. Ozone aka that sharp metallic bouquet, heavy on the shnozz. Just the thing to be expected when sufficient quantities of shit, psyche, otherwise, are amassed, amped, and plunged into potentially bottomless abysses, acquiring in the moments a certain heft. Perhaps I’m hearing the combined weight of years. The label blurb credits the work to two middle aged dads– MAD electronics that would at least put them in good company. Incapacitants Le Shit is not, not even Cosmic Incapacitants. But in the unfettered commitment to satisfying the Noisehead, two middle aged dads preach a convincingly savage gospel of harsh.

Now, not to be harsh but the opening line says psyche noise. Necessarily smoothened contours involved here, however flatulent. And somewhat at the detriment to the earhole savaging potentials. Soothing, really. Soothing sounds for baby harshdork, Mini Mi, with shit-hat, still tripping on ozone fumes. Thus the possibility of really fucking cranking this shit and observing in mute wonder as the speakers threaten to riiiiip clean apart, earholes safely assured of their future ability to receive and report sound to the tiny soddly brain.

Now, I know that of late I’ve been mentioning a certain Japanese psyche-noise legend every time the subject of even marginally psyche-like noise comes up. And I feel guilty about it, I really do. So I’ve decided, here and now, that at no point in this commentary will I mention Hiroshi Hasegawa. In fact, Hiroshi Hasegawa is the furthest thing from my mind right now. Hiroshi who? Never heard of him. I wouldn’t know a Hiroshi Hasegawa if Hiroshi Hasegawa himself bit me on the ass, though now that I mention it I’d probably enjoy Hiroshi Hasegawa biting me on the ass a bit too much, oh yeah baby, ah-huh…. bit on the ass by Hiroshi Hasegawa, whoo fuck yeah, bring that Hiroshi ass biting Hasegawa… ye-Essss….

Now, a word on the expectations. They were high. First of all, the Gospel comes with the choice blessings of White Centipede Noise. Second, I don’t need a second. But if I did, it would go something like: imagine the focus and discipline of the almighty Haare brought to bear on pointily directed harshheaded predilection. Imagine bridging the potential for out-and-out chaos in combination with the powers of meister Janne Laurila. Close your earholes and open your mind to the expansive, deeply penetrating, possibilities. Getting there? Well, don’t get carried too far, the ‘holes do require their penetrations.

Now, I don’t think I meant to do this, but the inevitable comparisons. First, the nameless progenitor of Rocket Shrine. Never heard of him. Throw in I Wish, both the Love & Noise original the Harsh Remix Version on Flash. While we’re on it, let’s namecheck Incaps’ CCCP & CCPC because, what the hell. The Savage Gospel’s got all that, but then quite a bit more. The macro dimensions are constantly evolving, shifting by degrees both subtle and not-so-subtle. And always, always, deep in the micro-clusters, saturated to the capacities– and beyond. In other words, never short of completely engrossing, start to finish.

Now, a question. Is this really all that psyche-noise-ish? Confession time. I’ve lately been doing a lot of solo driving, as in tooling around in the automobile. And Savage Gospel has somehow proven the perfect disembodied passenger. Think continuous rough savaging of the earholes, but at altered remove required of automated motor-rhythm stupor. Always, naturally, endeavoring to ensure I’m parallel with someone who’s got their windows rolled down: the Gospel must be preached! Think chemically addled mind transported singularly by sound, the straight-edge trip, drowning in abysmal depths of not-all-that-brutally-harsh harsh. Magical moments.


Now, the transcript. Magnetic Tongue– do I even want to know? Magically delicious moments, these, pink hearts, yellow moons, orange stars, green clovers, blue diamonds and purple mushroomheads, salaciously sucking attentions straight to the psychedelic center, half-lives in a peaceful new hole. Ohshit, there I go again, dropping another name. Check the richly saturated textures of Life In A Peaceful New World, then squoosh them into more savagely drilling aggressions. The opening moments offer the first clue, squiggling in wiggly-piggly space-waves and then the open-amped fed-back distortions. Five seconds later the straight curtain-drop, the solid-walled crush of heavily hued blurrrrrt. A snark or two of analog diddle but dropping progressively into the most unprogressive thick of it, the DENSE of it. This is the kind of dense what might be had when at least two agents are involved, let's call them Vekka and Laurila, the overloaded capacities refusing to resolve into anything short of almighty blistering thunder. And I’d like to pause there, on the blistering thunder, cause it's a new one for me. This is deep, heavy, bellowing, but equals parts singed at the stratospheric scorch-heights. Hints of feedback squeal are there, but only the barest hints, never to the point where they break through the crowded surface, serving mostly to remind that yes, the shit is, at root, harsh.

I Want To Make Everyone Happy. I’m sure you do you pervert. Once again the briefest flash of psyche-like analog bloopily-doopily and immediate rocket-woosh to peak scorch. And this one really does. Scorch. Perhaps the most Incaps-like of the trinity of tracks on offer, in that frequent intrusions of subsurface tension carry attentions through false flags to progress. No, my son, there is No Progress. None whatsoever. Or is there? Unquestionably these dads know their classics. What there also is, Incaps-wise, is a constant submerged background of modulated, occasionally quite shrill, feedback, sometimes wailing with voice-like dis-tonation, at other times plunging into fattened bludgeonings, twizzling in gaps into properly piercing shriek-streams. Meanwhile the overarching crush of it surges with a driving forward persistence, effortlessly flying over each burgeoning wave-wall. In the closing minute the previously submerged squealies temporarily tear through apparent cracks in the fabric, launching a final deep-voiced contraction, winking out with a waffly wobbled whimper.

Clocking in at a mere thirteen eleven, the densely Clustered finale is the shortest and fattest of the set. Fattest to mean most variously textured and most widely distributed along the frequency spectrum. Widely distributed particularly along the wide bottomed lower end extremities, flatulating deep in the darkest most enveloping recesses, soothing harshdork lullabies escorting attentions through gently rounded cumulonimbus lalalands. I write these words then look at them staring back at me, wondering what could it be that is up the responsible person’s ass. I mean, the shit’s positively ass-rending. Massive, scorching, destroying, blasting huge gaping holes in ozone, delivering bouquets of undistilled pique to the shnozz. The piece picks up almost exactly where track the second leaves off, but soon the subsurface acousmic feedback tensions are in play. By the third minute, the field widens and dips, sinking by degrees into still heavier rumble-loads. Rumble overloads. Cosmic rumble overloads, dregs of whitehot feedback screeching at the perimeter. By the eighth minute the sky is completely blotted, the all-consuming mass of it simply crushing, miniscule shriekeries licking out the curvature, feeding into the final fully flushed furies, a perfectly savage gospel of truth reigning down from on high, no midlife crisis of faith for these two middle aged dads.

Digest spew:
Soothing sounds for baby harshdork, savaged to the nth. The focus and discipline of Haare-raising fury combined with the not insignificant accumulations of meister Janne Laurila, pointily directed harshheaded intrusions psyched to the nth. Among the psyched masses of densely clustered rocket-woosh, blissed-out flashes of abysmal rapture fast approach peak scorch. Fat flatulent distorted rupturings of the wind, as to be expected when sufficient quantities of shit, psyche, otherwise, are amassed, amped, and plunged into potentially bottomless abysses of uncertain heft. To the nth. Soothing, cumulonimbus clouds blown apart in satisfyingly ripped clusters of puritannical butt thunder, the MAD electronics of two middle aged dads preaching a convincingly savage gospel of harsh.
« Last Edit: August 14, 2020, 05:42:38 PM by Bloated Slutbag » Logged

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