opens with: hellish shriek. stabs of broken beats. a hardcore band devoured by electricity. vox-vomit. everything malfunctions, grinds. corpse thuds pose as rhythm.
brevity, said dorothy parker, is the soul of lingerie. parker, that leftwing poet; that drunk wiseacre; that caustic blacklisted suicide.
cut to: almost blooze. the subtle amplification of damaged things scrapes slowly off face. tensiontensiontension. a satanic snigger. the vague unease of masturbating in a strange house.
it’s a process of elimination. never using two words when one will do. to say in ten sentences what other folk say in whole books.
cut to: something between gabber and prolapsing. something like whitehouse waterboarding the shadow ring. a graceless cacophony. sweatstained guys in too small tshirts, sausage fingers button mashing.
hell, what can’t be said in thirty seconds ain’t worth saying. and these fifteen songs, this blur of seventeen minutes and a shrapnel of seconds, haikus / tanka / haiga as dirty bombs.
cut to: mumblemouthed chiptune. cutlery drawer percussion. sea sick queasiness slides greasily inside us. a dry machine squeal.
noise that exists in mayfly lifespan. noise that comes and goes nowhere and everywhere all at once, stumbles to climax in a bent rush. just. to. get. there.
cut to: no-wave no-groove, slathered in blobbed gobbets, bilious, clamourous, buried, rotten, ‘neath the slobber, amplified and flailing around wantonly, this (un)listenable mess of an album.
a confusion-schmeared fucker for sure. radio static digital hardcore bleeding in bursts through tenement walls. the inexorable destruction of one idea.
cut to: one long drawn out death rattle of glass scrape and emphysemic klang. a creepy wheeze and time slows to a crawl with the clammy hands of an overfamiliar uncle.
short and bitter, like shots of fernet. compact and beautifully deformed.