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Author Topic: PLAYLIST with COMMENTS/REVIEWS  (Read 2803266 times)
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Bloated Slutbag
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« Reply #8085 on: September 16, 2020, 05:06:58 AM »

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

FUCK MO*TE

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

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

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

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

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

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

Digest spew:
FUCK MO*TE!
« Last Edit: September 17, 2020, 08:05:19 AM by Bloated Slutbag » Logged

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« Reply #8086 on: September 16, 2020, 01:24:38 PM »

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

Citalopram Shunyata/North Central/Rotat (CD, Hiisi/Daddy's Entertainment): All very good, Citalopram Shunyata never disappoints, though I think this are some of his best tracks for this project so far. Didn't know what to expect from North Central, but it's not very harsh noise, but rather going into the "atmospheric", creepy direction, good as well. Rotat isn't my favorite project, though I have some releases, this sounds a bit different, less low end sounds and some vocals in one of the tracks, first time I hear that. Pretty lengthy CD (over 60 min).
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« Reply #8087 on: September 16, 2020, 11:10:39 PM »

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

The Cherry Point - Live Hell CD - excellent loud 3 track scorcher. The final track with The Rita I had not heard before. Top notch stuff. Great layouts on these.
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« Reply #8088 on: September 17, 2020, 05:01:32 AM »

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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



Digest spew:

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


Mo*Te / A Fail Association – split c20 (Dadadrumming)
Shorty but goody, in the classic mold of assuage the ‘holes on one side and blow the buggers out on the other. Mo*Te ascends along curvaceous slides of lightly frosted undulation, engines slowly revving, loose-fit propeller wobbling ineffectually against flaccid traction, catching a groove of steady whirring accumulations, hushed harsh sending severely pitched spirals spinning through orbits of grim, synchronized, wheeze, then expiring in languid decelerations along the deepest bass fringe, gurgling through tight apertures, finally to release in luxuriant sputtering inner space sprawl.
A Fail Association explodes into thickly aggressive burls of curdled overload, continuously interrupted blurts and surges serving rough, lightning-paced, crunch-shred. Jagged knifings shred through the thick, abbreviated chirps of feedback shriek hard-jerked through dense rumble-loads, bearing down, hard, driving face-first through mounds of crumbling sludge.
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« Reply #8089 on: September 18, 2020, 11:52:57 PM »

SFÄR - Sprickor LP (Järtecknet, 2017)
Gustafsson (ALTAR OF FLIES) and Ottosson (BLODVITE) collaborating on what sadly seems to be the last Järtecknet release. They aren’t too far apart on their own, but where Gustafsson has an affection for rural and intimate sounds, Ottosson has mostly worked with machine-like sounds of urban construction/destruction. It all cones together here. There are alot of spoken layers here which took me some time to get used to, same thing with the last Ättestupa album. They do make sense though, and add alot of context, although they might be lost on everyone who don’t know Swedish (which might add a strangeness that I miss out on, come to think of it). Low key but intense album with some truly spellbinding moments (the almost Colley-esque first track on side B for instance). Grows and grows, this LP. Hope this wasn’t a oneoff thing.
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« Reply #8090 on: September 25, 2020, 03:15:11 PM »

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

Mirror - Ringstones (LP, 1999, Some Fine Legacy)
Same here. Bought in mint. Plenty of surface noise and such throughout. Not something you want on a Mirror lp. Did i get a bad copy or is it this bad? I only have Mirror on CD and Ringstones has stopped my from purchasing their other vinyl releases.
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« Reply #8091 on: September 26, 2020, 08:12:12 PM »

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

I have a copy and never noticed any surface noise etc. My copy is from the pressing with STUMM 10 A₁ PN and STUMM 10 B₁ PN etched on the matrix.
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« Reply #8092 on: October 01, 2020, 08:24:39 AM »

BJNILSEN - Focus Intensity Power LP (Moving Furniture, 2018)
To me, BJ Nilsen has first and foremost been a sound wizard mastering other people’s work (the Sewer Election - Blizzard Amplification set being the latest example). It’s only during the last couple of years that I’ve delved into his own music (the Tape Dekay CD on Narcolepsia comes recommended!), and his contribution to the excellent Bidödaren compilation made me feel stupid; what have I’ve been ignoring/missing out on for so many years? So I picked up this LP for starters. Exquisite massive electronic drone of a warm vintage kind. Very evocative. Would have made a great soundtrack to one of the more chilling and sparse sci-fi movies of the 70’s. A sensation of being completely alone in a very very vast and unfamiliar place. Eerie... Chop Shop, Joe Colley and Jim Haynes crosses my mind, but this is still something else, and in a league of its own. I’m quite stunned!
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« Reply #8093 on: October 01, 2020, 10:37:21 AM »

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

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

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

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

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

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


Digest spew:
In the face of uncertain odds, we will struggle to be ourselves. A herculean struggle to signify squat amid burnt-to-shit textural butt-ruptures, crystal clarity of shattered edges brightly piercing utterly smoked air-cavities, measured percussive thunks and bass-chugs teeing off against unhinged sphinct-spasms of meticulously sliced ‘n diced crunch-splutter flatulence. At their upper extremities, razor’d peaks like rusted nails punch straight through eye sockets, dazed ‘n mangled focus puking guts in whirlwinds of frenetic herk jerk mc’splerk, the correct and astute placement of elements expertly torqued to mime the sense of careening wildly out of control– though so very clearly anything but. Bare-knuckled brawls of symphonic– sphinct-phonic– fudge-punchery, a beautifully butt-rapturously vicious violence. So here's the analytic mind, demanding to dissect the shit into here’s the Facial here’s the SICK but frankly analytic mind dearest go fuck yourself. Gut-punch the analysis and go, go full retard. There is no light left that can illuminate your ignorance.
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« Reply #8094 on: October 01, 2020, 12:14:27 PM »

Alfarmania - Skracken
Candlelabrum/Suphuric Night 10"
Kudlaakh - Kudlaakh
ZSS - Live Medical Experiments
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« Reply #8095 on: October 01, 2020, 04:01:55 PM »

Jackson-Pratt - Deep In The Night, I’m Lost In Love CD (Oxen): Really enjoyable! I have a few other tapes (I recall really enjoying the double CS on Dead Gods that I’ll have to revisit) but this just hits just right. Nice and crunchy, lots of feedback and some mangled synth bits (???) and enough variety of keep things interesting and moving throughout the whole CD. Definitely highly recommend!!

Vomir/Bacillus CS - I have slept on Bacillus for sure, first thing I picked up was the split with The Rita last year and since then I’m trying to grab everything I can. Something about this stuff just grabs me the right way. This one has.... amazing packaging and I’m thrilled to have my own Vomir mask, even if I will never take apart the packaging a second time and try to get it all back together. Vomir side is Vomir. Not sure it warrants a review. It’s great. It’s Vomir. I love it.
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« Reply #8096 on: October 03, 2020, 11:03:48 PM »

MERZBOW - Exoking
This is not the most talked about Merzbow album, and I think some would say there's good reason. Rhythms, easily identifiable instruments and clownish nonsense could very well have made this one of the worse offerings from a guy who's made a whole lot of offerings over the years. It is saved by a couple of things. First of all it is very well produced, which seems to be an advantage with this type of unmusic. Perhaps more importantly, the music as such is also very well put together. The tracks come across as, if not written, then at least planned. That makes the experience more enjoyable than it would have been otherwise. Some tracks are more solid than others - glitchy, repetitive sounds, some rather held back noise bursts etc. Others are far closer to joke/chaos stuff, and things become more difficult the more actual instruments and regular beats get thrown in the mix. Still, at least tonight this was a decent experience despite the fact that I put it on without quite knowing what to expect. Could possibly be very annoying to me if the stars stood differently, though, and it is probably best to approach it when in the mood for "experimental" (or possibly "whatever") rather than looking for a japanoise brain burster.
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« Reply #8097 on: October 07, 2020, 07:45:07 PM »

Kiyoshi Mizutani ‎– Works 1989-1991 (Povertech Industries)

A nice collection of late-80's and early-90's work from Kiyoshi Mizutani, an early member of Merzbow. Wide ranging experimental noise with no strict genre tropes. Feedback, field recordings, synth experiments, some percussion. It's all over the place, and I like that. It reminds me of the Noisextra podcast episode with GX where he mentions enjoying earlier Merzbow work "before he found his sound." There's an openness to this disc that feels similar. The artist is reaching out towards interesting sound art without necessarily reaching towards something specific. The best part is that you can buy one straight from Joe Colley here: https://issuesshop.com/collections/frontpage/joe-colley
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« Reply #8098 on: October 08, 2020, 10:59:31 AM »

See bottom of this post for digest commentary.

Chris Goudreau ‎– Further Fields, Or Close
You’d be right in expecting a departure from harsh electronic purity when SICKNESS spreads under his own name. You may also expect the familiar symptoms: angular dynamics, exacting precision, meticulous detail, constant movement, practiced attention to pacing and flow. And there you’d be right again. This three-part digital-only brevity was created for AMPLIFY 2020 out of remnants, partials, and leavings from field recordings gathered since quarantine and represents the fourth release under the name but only the second belonging exclusively to the studio. In the studio the departure from the celebrated SICKisms is more clear cut, every bit as infectious, but, just….not so fiercely now.

Opener Further is perhaps the furthest yet from the fiercely finessed cuts and chops honed over the better part of two decades. Or to say, the cuts and chops are there, but de-harshed in the service of disembodied industrial strength atmosphere, as though culled from late night sorties at a haunted warehouse or dockyard. Garbled snatches of voice accelerate ghost-like around shadowy corridors, flitting in between fuller bodied rumbles, snatched huffs of deep-sunk bellows, boiler room steam hiss, dampened washes of blackened gasp, wooden thunk, choked whisper. At the crystalline peaks, the jarring bite of scrap metal in clattered collapse, never to the fore, always fading back in spectral spirals. A possibly obscure comparison, and perhaps to earn in your sometimes faithful narrator a righteous hoof to the jewels, but in the hallucinated afterburn the caustic concrete considerations might dare to suggest deftly spliced highlights from Illusion of Safety’s From Nothing To Less.

A loud bang announces the centerpiece, whose expansive Fields leave any suggestion of the above comparison at some further remove (and with any luck to save the prized jewels from further malignment). Haunted warehouse disembodiments continue to invade the space, but so too a number of electronic buzzings, wheedlings, grumblings, heftier burls of field-molested huffs and chaffs dodging the occasional dull hammer or ringing clang. The majority of these tends to come straight at you without warning, singularly smithied caustics conspiring to unsettle attentions among their more abruptly finessed snips and slashes. The restless, often variable pacing, broadened textural palette and myriad hard-panned crescendos compete as readily to disorient as to invite fruitless quest to resolve the many and bruising stresses. On this occasion, the stresses are often meted out with some percussive force, the rough angling of each successive cut delivered in pointedly sharp dynamic contrast to net a jarring series of never-relenting bangs n thuds, razor’d staccato thwacking and smacking upside the backside down the back end thrown sideways round the bend, over and back again. If you catch my drift.

A lot of the textures here are very raw and organic, much in line with the gnarled thatch of cover art, roughly terrained fields through which to drag yr filthy carcass. Evidently a heavy sort of carcass at that, the dragging an episodic lurching, from field to field, never really harried but never keen to stick around, as though flipping through an industrial-strength pastoral picture book, lingering a few moments to dwell on the ambient afterimages, skipping quickly over the less absorbing gestures, sometimes knocking things off the tree stump and straight into the dirt in the process. Just in case you weren’t paying attention, stop-motion drags of grimy bass gulpage freeze frame, then off we go again, reversing upside-down through quick-spliced snapshots of screaming visages trapped in this heaving and jerking hall of mirrors. As the fields near their climax, the space between each cut narrows...closer, closer still...accelerating straight up to legit frenetic pacing that starts to wear just that dab SICK on the palate.

Closer or Close tightens the cuts into frantic jittery pincer-stabs, popping up from densely fogged, slow-grubbing, undergrowth and scampering in excited insectile fevers across the almost frozen tundra before dipping back again below the surface. The rare owl-call or singular echo sometimes startles the chattering fits, as though to remind the listener that someone has in fact been tasked with bringing this to earhole, and meanwhile the grumbling groundswells of subsurface rumble-huff steadily hold the fort. For the most part, however, them pesky ill-mannered buggers keep popping up again and again, quick-spliced snap, rattle, clack, pinching and scratching sickeningly against the earhole, tight-packed slivers of razor-wire caught in a mad, scrabbling, death-jig.

Still itching to contract some SICKNESS? Look no further than Close until Further, a sweet little bonus goodie available via the prime mover’s bandcamp. This picks up where the album proper leaves off, mad scrabbling cuts compiling pretty much the entire album’s worth of material into three minutes of straight fire. So I suppose, if you weren’t afraid of sounding like a complete dick, you could call this SICKNESS Plays Chris Goudreau. SICKNESS plays the full Chris Goudreau medley here, tightening the screws tighter still, closing the gaps between the cuts to the point of non-existence, close, closer, closest! In other words, if everything in the piece sounds exceedingly familiar it’s because you’ve just heard it. Only, het up to breakspine velocity, herking, jerking, lurching and jacking your ass all over the goddamn place. Because, like, it can. Now, if violently shoved into a corner and forced to choose a hole, I might indicate preference for this stuff when it’s laid bare for less frenzied introspection, to bliss up the relatively restful sublimations in myriad texture. No chance for that here. Stutter-blasted jerkout fits of frantic epileptic fuckfrenzy, rough-angled jump-cuts ramped with illiberally sprinkled spasms of distorted scrinch-scrape, razor’d staccato thwacking and smacking upside the backside down the back end thrown sideways round the bend in a dizzying hall of mirrored lurch ‘n heave-ho, out with chunks, thar she blows. Just, sick.


Digest spew
The second studio-specific sortie for the SICK One under his own name collects fields flung furthest yet from the fiercely finessed cuts and chops honed over the better part of two decades. Here the cuts and chops are studiously de-harshed in the service of disembodied industrial strength atmos, garbled snatches of voice accelerating backward around shadowy corridors, flitting in between fuller bodied rumbles, snatched huffs of deep-sunk bellows, boiler room steam hiss, dampened washes of blackened gasp setting off gnarled fields of raw, organic, texture, collapsed metals disappearing in spectral spirals. The restless, often variable pacing, broad textural palette and myriad hard-panned crescendos compete to disorient, the rough angling of each successive cut delivered in pointedly sharp dynamic contrast. Linger in one field, lurch to the next, bliss up the sickless sublimations in myriad texture. Then, it gets SICK.
« Last Edit: October 08, 2020, 11:38:44 AM by Bloated Slutbag » Logged

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« Reply #8099 on: October 08, 2020, 10:34:31 PM »

MSBR - Intensification 10” (Praxis Dr Bearmann, 1995)
I play this quite often, but I try not to as I usually end up neglecting whatever new records or tapes I have laying around. Everything just pales next to this. Industrial strength (literally, in this case) lazer sharp noise. Elegant violence all the way.

JAZKAMER - Bentobox 3xC60 (Abisko, 2005)
Such a cool set. A whole tours worth of live recordings in a box. Several of the livesets remind me of Speculum Fight around 1995-1997 (Swimming Pool, Medium etc.), both in the sounds themselves and that there’s a patience there, just letting the sounds slowly run their course and mutate until they hit home, so to speak. Great stuff!
For some dumbass reason, this is the sole Jazzkammer in this home. What other do I need? Any key albums?
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