certainly not orthodox. but definitely orthodox.
a ruddy asthmatic trinity of wheezing, screeching reeds and lumbering thuds and deviant clatter. an enucleating din that rattles fillings in teeth, detaches retinas and fizzes the goddam blood.
there’s a nice sweaty corporeality (as there should be) to the proceedings. dirty, bodily, choked in flesh and sweat and hair. on a surface level, it’s music reduced to a filthy core of orgasmic shrieks; violent expulsions; paroxysmic lunges.
wet, hard smacks.
it’s improvisation to dance to, fuck at, all feverish and spastic. annihilation as ascension (coltrane and otherwise). whiteknuckled, grinding. a pirouette of refusal, tease tease teasing a groove, a tempo, a melody, anything to cling to, but giving up nothing.
a ripe ur-rattle, ur-rhythm, ur-repetition. a muss of flail and writhe over lurch and skreee.
spittle-flecked and smeared. all the fractured grind and freakout klang is just grist to this six legged, six armed, six lunged mill.
it’s music as performance.
jaggy and disjointed as it is, there’s an ebb and flow to this narrative. picking out parts is foolish. like concentrating on one solitary pointillist dot.
focus on the black hole / the chest wound / the sheol.
sucking. gushing. rupturing.
god i need a cigarette…