oh it’s almost pretty isn’t it? like a garbage disposal wearing lipstick. you might lovingly, tenderly stroke its rouged, perfumed mouth-hole but you wouldn’t put anything pinkandfleshy in there would you? aye… unlike the hirsute pigfuckerry and brutal scatology of previous hey colossus (and the van halen somethingorother) records this bugger’s gone and shined it’s shoes and combed it’s hair a bit. gone and got themselves an oily germanic sheen.
hums and haws it’s way into life, rumbling and wheezing like a geriatric neurosis. séance chatter and monkish om’s. morricone hoom and twang. the feedback of dead machines. a kind of unsettling hushed intro, some gentle frottage before tetsuo the iron man starts fisting the amplifiers. and following with grim inevitability; the monolithic monochording you expect from these bloody savages. a three second squall of narcotic doomish repeatoriffing atop the binary fug and thud of drums. gonna skullfuck your brittle heads, it’s shrieking.
and it slips between these two tropes with uneasy restraint. veering from fugly guitar mangling to theta wave symphonies. from the title track’s cold clammy panic, like michael gerald from killdozer growling incomprehensibly atop wonky synths and the thick amplified blood-voom of irregular heartbeat. to the bardo pond on a tight schedule stonerry of almeria, spain and the motorhead / neu! mashup of rotated for success.
it’s a record that threatens, shuffles and stumbles along with an unwieldy prettiness. a lairy drunk girl in high heels. an enneahedronic continuum of juddering hypno-heaviness. a hairy nonagon of bastardised motorik and fugly pummelling psych.