|UserSoundoffs 28Album Ratings 4631Objectivity 78%Last Active 11-28-21 2:03 amJoined 04-01-15Forum Posts 11Review Comments 15,701
|rerunnin and runnin and runnin redux|
spreadin the gospel for our mans.
Lethargic and disaffected. Stuck in a mindset of flexing and self-loathing (in not-so-equal measure). Beats straddle that line between bouncy, fruity and distant. Not necessarily a picture of the streets, but unequivocally a picture of a mind shaped by the streets and a mind caught between accepting and rejecting the modern consumerist condition. Braggadocio (fuck I hate that word) dulled by self-lamentation and half-deliberate, half-depressed isolation. Fucking shoot me.
“Don’t fuck wit you, I am alone, I am alone”
Human Meat Gluttony
Colombian Brutal Death Metal
In a word: unhinged. Intricate yet sloppy as is so endemic of the Colombian scene. Seemingly incomprehensible and “retarded”, yet there lies method in their madness, and half-philosophical critiques woven in their Broken-English dialect. Very similarly to their slam equivalents, Artery Eruption, Amputated Genitals nail that “mind of a serial killer” vibe in a way that really makes others pale in comparison. Wanky death metal with a mentality that would leave even the wiggeriest slam-merchants guffawing in disbelief.
Last Days of Humanity-by-way-of-Prosthetic Cunt-by-way-of-Cephalotripsy-by-way-of… A riotous amalgam of all the fucked up tropes of cybergrind, harsh noise, slam death and gorenoise. Sub-minute-thirty blasts of scatterbrained, tempo-confused drum machine and blown-the-fuck-out bass with the trademark gore-gurgles and grunts. Over-the-top, sure, but undeniably effective just the same. Equally pleasurable as being on the receiving end of a mandingo throatfuck. That may or may not be to your taste.
I use “ahead of their time” as a descriptor for Anal Birth not as a contrived descriptor to justify the borderline-absurdist shittiness of their spastic impro-drum-machine driven vomitnoise, but as an acknowledgment of the fact that they were a short ten years ahead of the curve when it came to gorenoise. Putrefaction in Progress and Of an Hermaphroditic… are both seen as the templates for gorenoise (and arguably, they are more representative of the direction the sound was taken), but Infantbutchering, in its proto-UxTxIxFxSxPxC glory, really defined the filth-obsessed ethos of gorenoise. Add to the mildly disconcerting obsession with mutilation of infants their complete disregard for song structure (beyond the Agathoclian blast, roar, repeat template for noisegrind) and musicality, and you get an image of filth and depravity that is both timeless and defining.
Fuck a moral compass, fuck your society, fuck life, fuck pleasure, fucking kill me.
Gouging Out Eyes of Mutilated Infants
Slam Death/Free Improvisation
Slam whereby the song-writing hasn’t just been dumbed down, but thrown out the window altogether. Yet, despite the fact that it sounds like the trio are playing three different songs simultaneously, there remains a sense of charismatic chemistry; their playing cohesive in its disjointedness (just look at the batshit crazy drum-solo, funeral-slam breakdown in the, perhaps, aptly-titled “Stimulation in a Rigormortified Whore”). Slam often gets “slammed” for being dumb, and in a lot of ways it is a fair criticism, but Artery Eruption go further with it, turning it into a strength, and injecting an almost Reynols-esque sense of trisomy-21 fervour into their ~compositions~. Structureless, and perhaps the perfect conjuration of that psychopathic and depraved ~atmosphere~ that so many other slammers have tried, but failed to recreate.
I don’t know how to explain this honestly. In some ways it feels a tribute to Peter Sotos, yet everything seems “off”. The sample of what I assume to be an interview is distorted and warped beyond comprehension, further obscured by rumbling hyper-distorted bass, and mangled guitar shredding. It’s hard to decipher whether there is even any kind of control to this at all, give or take the offputtingly creepy laugh that is used as a kind of cue to signal the start and end of Mr. DH’s beyond amateurish attempts at soloing and shredding. It makes sense that it’s so fucking off-the-wall, considering that it’s the product of a scene known for its eccentricities, but nonetheless it is ludicrous. Indescribable, and genuinely confusing, even if that was not supposed to be the point. An oddity in a genre where such wackiness is seen as the norm.
Welcome To My Fucking Misery
Power Electronics/Harsh Noise Wall
An image of self-loathing filtered through a lens of outwards hatred and transgression. Degradation and denigration of beliefs, morals and values. A portrayal of rape as acceptable, and an act of triumph, of pedophilia as a mere by-product of love, and fascism as the logical conclusion to politics. Walls of jagged, abrasive noise (a la the Rita) not-so-much juxtaposed as set against distorted, hissing, bile-laced diatribes, as are par for the course in these musical realms. As corrupt ideologically as it is musically. It’s almost impossible to tell if it’s questioning or challenging. Self-assuredness offset by fleeting self-awareness and an ever-present sense of self-disgust. Alienation from societal norms, or perhaps a begrudging acceptance of them, dressed up as their frivolous rejection. Intoxicating in its dishonesty and disingenuity.
An oddity. Blasts of gore-tinged-noise, separated by tuneless and horrendously off-key chord strums. Sonically equivalent to sound checks performed by a mentally disabled man in between clamorous distortion-filled squalls. And whilst it seems a one-trick pony, it becomes awkwardly entrancing when viewed as a whole, the contrast between the 10-second blasts of noise and the aimless guitar noodlings in-between creating a quite Karkowskian sense of meta-minimalist loud-soft dynamism. Tension, and release.
Likaiset vitun elaimet. Vitun koirat. Polvistukaa. Noyrtykaa. Vitun ali-ihminen. Anna persetta. Sua pitaa panna nyrkilla perseeseen. Kuristaa takaapain. Scrap-metal and feedback-heavy power electronics, with an obvious proclivity for xenophobia and sexual degradation. As close a sonic representation to their quite confronting performances (often composed of bondage and torture of willing [and unwilling] participants, alongside the normal noise antics) as there exists. Embrace filth, embrace degradation, embrace worthlessness. Drink heavy with me, slit my throat, throw me in a ditch. Hurt me… It’s what I deserve. Just make sure you’re jamming this while you beat me.
SOULJA LUV RARI WORLD
Cloud Rap/Trap Rap
A step beyond that mere disaffection that so many of his contemporaries show. Apathetic and recklessly nihilistic; ethereal and warped, as if chopped and screwed, yet belonging more to the real world than the bureaucratic “utopia” in which it was crafted. Emotionally disconnected, yet physically aware. Beats almost reminiscent of what would happen were Leyland Kirby to get a hold of fruity loops or ableton. Hazey and lost: Goth Money incarnate. Bless up.
|11||Black Leather Jesus|
Paid in Rough Trade
Harsh Noise (Wall)
Monolithic is an understatement. A compilation that essentially makes the rest of Richard Ramirez’ extensive discography (and that’s an understatement too) seem redundant. Forever stuck between the dynamism of “vanilla” harsh noise and the miasmatic constancy of HNW. Loud, incisive, and intricately layered harsh noise, replete with enough junk metal abuse, distortion pedal-fuckery and feedback worship to sate any noise junkie. The homoerotic samples, that BLJ and Ramirez have prided themselves upon, are fewer and further between, yet there’s still that pervasive feeling of perversion eminent throughout. More back-alley rape than bedroom romance.
Cloud Rap/Alt R&B/Drill
Depression in colour. The dichotomy of emotional vulnerability with polished, and quite roboticised music paints a kind of demented contrast; happiness and ignorance barely covering thinly-veiled self-hatred and nihilistic self-destruction. Melodically faultless (as is to be expected of the autotune angel), and endlessly expansive (especially in the beat department, with influences ranging from trap to post-punk to gamelan). Post-modernism manifest in the form of affluenzic discontent and emotional dysmorphia.
Uterovaginal Insertion of Extirpated Anomalies
I wrote a shit-tier review for this back in the day, but as fucking terrible as it may be (or as terrible as my perceptions may paint it, I don’t fucking know, I hate everything I touch, shut up, go away), it did an adequate job of summing things up: Cephalotripsy stripped slam of the one thing that allowed them a distinguishing characteristic. Instead of contrasting the slams with uptempo, trem-blast frenzy passages, Cephalotripsy give us slams, slams and more motherfucking slams. Breakdowns within breakdowns, slams piled upon slams → mental retardation encapsulated. And for all of its uber-wigger, groove-driven chromatic glory, there is a weird sense of genius. Cephalotripsy, for all intents and purposes, are the Steve Reich of metal; reducing music to its integral elements only. In this case, the integral element is the slam. Minimalist-reductivism, applied in perhaps the most boneheaded manner possible.
Back From The Dead 2
Probably the most aggressive, and nihilistic drill (if not rap) there is. Sosa finds "his own", or perhaps hisself on his own; having to produce for himself after a bit of a falling out with his favourite hippamo, young chop. And what results is something kinda gloriously weird; beats that make almost no sense, but seem at the same time to be tailor-made to Sosa’s snarled delivery here. Out-of-place snare rolls, random drop-outs and screwed faux-orchestral samples characterise Sosa’s practically avant-garde production. His flow is practically non-existent, and his portrayal of the gang lifestyle darker than ever.
“IF YOU DISRESPECT MY NIGGAS (BANG, BANG)/RESPECT WITH THE TEC MY NIGGA (GANG, BANG)”
Hardcore Punk/Noise Punk
Sloppy, noisy and just all-round raw as fuck HxC, with a solid dose of self-hatred to ice the figurative cake. A 5-minute blast of all you really need to know about coke jaw. A wall of tuneless guitars, typically throat-shredding yells, some cunt bashing the fuck out of the drums; filtered through a mix that nicely balances the cheap-ass four-track feel with the soft fuzziness of whatever hipster-fuck production techniques they use for indiegaze. More important than any of this is how genuine the self-loathing feels; perhaps a by-product of their almost-complete disregard for actually “playing” their instruments, instead opting for punishing them instead (in ~true D.I.Y. HxC~ style, no less). Nothing to fuck with.
“I FUCKING HATE MYSEEEEEEEELF”
An Island of Noise in an Island of Silence
Although belonging to the same ballpark, Contort and the aforementioned (Coke Jaw) have practically nothing in common. Self-loathing is displaced by antitheistic sentiments that would find themselves better appropriated in the uber-kvlt elite metal realms, sloppiness is multiplied by some factor of fucktons, and that little bit of forgiveness that Coke Jaw’s mix offered is now entirely absent. I guess there’s a bit of overlap in the realm of not giving a single fuck about anything, but even that link is tenuous. And funnily enough, as contrived as the whole, “burn more churches,” message Contort coopt may be, they somehow manage to lend it a sense, not of credibility, but of believability (beyond the quite embarrassing posturing of their metal counterparts) I guess the fact that they’re Irish gives them a contextual advantage (considering the controversies of Irish Catholicism) ...
An Island of Noise in an Island of Silence
but nonetheless, they manage to grant it an authenticity of hatred and intent that the average trem-wielding, corpse paint-covered, self-proclaimed blasphemers simply cannot conjure.
I Have A Special Plan For This World
Dark Ambient/Spoken Word
Dark ambient as a genre is trash. I truly believe it is. There’s less than a handful of worthwhile artists, and in all honesty they’re all copycats of each other, and due to the kinda self-parodying nature of the genre as a whole, it wouldn’t surprise me if they’re all the same person as well. But I digress. Current 93 are probably more well-known for their post-industrial NWWisms and their various takes on “wacky Nick Cave folk”. In this sense, I Have a Special Plan… is somewhat of an outlier in their discography, and perhaps that is what makes it so ~special~. It’s quite basic really, perhaps moreso than the works of the many many many dark snorebient artists that have risen to fame in recent times (most notably via contriving a sense of thematic, or as they like to call it “cinematic”, cohesion); made up of monotone recitation atop a quite whitegoods-reminiscent background whirr....
I Have A Special Plan For This World
Mantraistic repetition of indictments and conjurations of an apocalypse more transformative than destructive. Tape-manipulation distorts the message in such a way that what was already mildly creepy becomes effectual, and more literally imprinted into your memory. There’s a kind of schlocky B-grade horror vibe to it all, yet despite that it remains endearing, albeit in a kind of twisted faux-misanthropic way.
“He made them laugh oh yes he did,
He did, he did, he did, he did,
Oh, how he made them roll,”
Destruccion De Los Seres Humanos En Proceso
Again (as with Asluperemaicneserpatupussonamuhsehcnip), there’s an element of uncertainty when it comes to analyzing this. It’s certifiably fucked up and anti-musical, but it’s impossible to discern if there is any epithetical intention to it. In part, that is because it is so atypical of what you would expect; the actual gorenoise sandwiched between two 90-second long samples of shrill, string-driven Halloween/horror music (which is especially notable considering the 5-minute runtime). And it is quite grating, a frustration before the payoff; the figurative quite before the storm, or whatever other clichéd analogy you can draw. When it all finally clicks into place, you’re left with a UxTxIxFxSxPxC-on-steroids take on spastic-drum-machine-driven gorenoise that places much more emphasis on the “noise” than the “gore”. The impenetrable murk lapses back into irritation and the intent becomes all the more muddied...
Destruccion De Los Seres Humanos En Proceso
As much a struggle to figure out as whether or not the photo used as the album cover was taken by the man himself or not.
|22||Dog As Master|
Power Electronics/Sound Collage
The thematic and musical embodiment of 80s power electronics. Dedicated to confrontation, “brashness” and disgust. Probably the “noisiest” of the 80s (give or take some of Controlled Bleeding’s work) in terms of sheer thickness (which at times almost reaches proto-HNW levels of impenetrability), accompanied quite nicely by a quite-audible stream of obscenities and vulgarities (as is par for the course). What really sets this apart from most is the weird samples that pop-up throughout, that give it a kind of field-recordings bent (with various snippets of eastern music, slot machine sounds and all varieties of odd bleeps and bloops), alongside the fuckery of various circuit-bent toys and instruments. An obvious, yet esoteric, inspiration for Voice Crack, MIMEO and the various other EAI groups that experimented in similar areas...
|23||Dog As Master|
What’s most odd of all, however, is hearing what sounds to be a sample from a childhood show in beneath a cranky fuck yelling, “I WANNA FUCK YOUR BRASH PUSSY, I WANNA SHOVE MY COCK UP YOUR ASS!”
An autobiographical dialectic of the 1980s noise scene, and an apt precursor for what was to come.
NoizeMongers For GoatSerpent
There’s a beautiful sense of self-awareness inherent to Enbilulugugal’s blasphemous black noise. It’s almost drunken spasticity is reminiscent, in ways, to the ~uber-kvlt~ first wave black metal scene that it makes such an effort to mock. Endearing is not a quality normally used to describe that so dedicated to the destruction of musical ethos, but for Enbilulugugal and their half-deranged, half-retarded, zero-competence take on black metal, it is a quality quite apparent. “Black metal” that has more in common with AMM and Artery Eruption than it does with Venom and Mayhem. Wold’s dropout, full-time alcoholic big sister. She really needs to stop inviting male callers over.
Illuminations of Vile Engorgement
The yin to Cephalotripsy’s yang. Although both present possibly the dumbest form of slam conceivable, methodically they couldn’t be further apart. Whereas the ‘tripsy strip it down to the slams themselves (and nothing more), Enmity pile blasts upon gurgles upon indistinguishable chugs and grooves. It creates a kind of Pollock-esque slam, the sounds blurring together, creating an epithetical car-crash of sound. There’s a case to be made for it portraying a kind of “slam noise wall”, so far as it portrays the same lack of musical sensibility, and the same dedication to damage that would make even the most masochistic clamour in disgust. Total destruction of musical ethos in the name of “brutality”. Death metal’s logical conclusion.
Death Metal/Field Recordings/Noise
Fuck it, imma be frank with y’all: writing all these descriptions is tiring as fuck. Especially when similarity starts to weave its way in. Trynna keep these descriptions unique, but its fucking tough, y’feel? That aside, Untitled #104 is an interesting case so far as the “music” has become the field recording. At times it is reminiscent of a demo-recording of some early 90s death metal band that realistically should’ve and, until this was released, didn’t unearth itself. But then, as the piece progresses, it morphs into this kind of noise-by-way-of-death metal mess; rhythms obscured and fucked beyond repair, and any semblance of melody destroyed by whatever glitch-esque fuckery Lopez has performed. Shitty death metal overlaid by field recordings in such a way to create an ambience entirely alien....
Perhaps a step towards answering that ever-begging question posed by the musical traditionalists, but at the same time, probably a step in some other direction.
Black Metal/Noise Punk
Fascist blackened punk performed by persons that have never picked up instruments before. What you would expect of a Filth and Violence black metal EP. Ildjarn if he were less competent (and a neo-nazi). Probably as authentic a conveyance of hate as there is in the quite self-parodying realms of metal. In part, this is probably due to the fact that there’s a quite tangible punk influence (especially in terms of the post-D.I.Y., “break it yourself” approach Hakaristi take), but there’s also an air of pervasive hatefulness. Incitation of race violence in the form of black metal-by-way-of-noise punk-by-way-of-power electronics. Redefines whatever those stupid corpse paint and battle armour-covered kvlt-warriors believe “raw” is.
Wreckage Installations and Metalworks
A logical extension of the New Blockaders’ take on musique concrete-tinged harsh noise, whereby Hutchinson aims to provide a quite literal take on “industrial” by simulating the clangs and screeches of scrap-metal-upon-scrap-metal-upon-scrap-metal. And by exploiting this definition so, it creates a dichotomy between natural and unnatural; endlessly layered loops of unfiltered scrap-metal abuse indeed creating an image of conveyer belts and those other things purely “industrial” as intended, but doing so at the expense of any and all humanity. Entirely emotionally detached; a cold portrait of a world in which humanity is subservient to efficiency. Falters a bit so far as the end result is an affirmation of the now quite clichéd post-Orwellian fears, but nonetheless it is presented with a sense of candour and honesty that grants it ~credibility~.
Wreckage Installations and Metalworks
Although an imperfect attempt, given the half-accidental structure with which the installations hold themselves together (which Hutchinson readily admits are quite apposite to his aims), it remains worthy of mention. A stepping stone towards self-destruction.
|31||Hello Kitty Suicide Club|
Probably the closest “scene” music has come to exposing the underside of society. And even then it seems to be unintentional. Unintentionally grating, and unintentionally filthy. But it isn’t filthy as most of the stuff on this list is. Rather, instead of it being an image of piss-stained alleys and shit-scented crack-houses, it’s an image of underage exploitation and innocence corrupted. Rebellious teens having underage sex behind their parents’ backs only to have to try and talk their parents into helping out with the abortion after the 15-year old girl with her shitty homemade tattoo and lip and nose piercings just “happened” to miss her pregnancy. Middle-class kids with cheap synthesisers and enough money to buy the full-version of garage band having their hand at making “nintendocore”....
|32||Hello Kitty Suicide Club|
But somewhere things go awry and the pitiful fry screams turn more into cat-esque screeches and the synthesisers begin to reek of a few angsty teens fucking with midi sequencers and whatever the fuck else. It’s a clusterfuck of terrible sounds that come together in such a way that manages to unintentionally expose everything wrong with “scene” exploitation. A pop-punk fan’s pedophilia-tinged wet dream.
Knee deep in underage clunge.
Whore Splattered Walls
It’s quite apt that these guys follow HKSC, because they do, in a lot of ways, represent a more fully-grown representation of them, minus the scene inclinations. Exposition of teen-exploitation turns into ridicule and degradation of the junkies and prostitutes of this world. Everything points to the vibe of killing hookers, from the quite explicit song titles, to the self-dubbed, out-of-this-world “bitch screams” and the frenzied, disjoint manner in which the songs progress (or perhaps more aptly transgress). Samples weave their way in between the overdriven electronic-noise, fuzz-fucked, faux-slam riffs and two-pronged vocal, drum-machine onslaught. Although the whore splattered walls of this early incarnation aren’t as off-putting and discomfortingly real as the chopped and screwed gorenoise of their more recent albums, the sick-fuck vibe remains apparent. Lopped-off tits and butchered vulvas are scattered around the room. You’d think Ed Gein had risen from the dead.
Whore Splattered Walls
It’s hard to believe that people think these whores asked for it.
|35||Junko and Mattin|
A benchmark for unlistenability. Junko in a single half-hour piece puts Diamanda Galas’ entire career to waste. Mattin, although normally quite ineffectual, and a decided outsider in the EAI scene (mainly because of his lack of attention to detail and quite embarrassing political posturing(s)) realistically does very little to mess with things. The feedback he provides (or perhaps more aptly, is responsible for) retains its painful high-pitched whistle for the duration of Pinknoise; noticeable and painful enough to make an impact, but not upfront enough to distract from Junko’s inhuman performance. An anti-musical statement of hatred and distaste for humanity, as portrayed by senseless screaming and tinnitus-inducing feedback. The sonic equivalent of a Diamanda Galas x Plague Mother rape-baby.
Primo-No Coast PE with an emphasis on urban and societal decay. Five-pronged hyper-distorted synthesiser and vocal attack. Violent, turbulent, dense, hateful and unabashedly honest. An unwavering belief in society as a means to degrade. Empty warehouses, half-drunk 40 oz. and sadomasochistic acts of sexual perversion.
I WILL NEVER BE LIKE YOU, I WILL NEVER WANT TO BE LIKE YOU, I WILL NEVER WANT TO BE YOU, YOU’RE WORTHLESS
Bringer of Destruction
“Minimalism” gets thrown around a lot in black metal (mainly by boring-as-fuck bedroom atmo-black bands or depressive black metal bands that just can’t get the point across), but never is it as well-embodied as by Malaise. One chord, one rhythm, one tempo, one metre per song. For ten songs. Hell, the chords are even, at times, hard to tell apart. Pseudo-war metal parading around as primitive Ildjarn worship. More intense than Revenge could ever wish to be and more hypnotic than any lame-ass Xasthur-clone can ever attest to being.
Sniper At the Fag Paradise
Semi-serious, fag-hating, feminist-cunt hating noisecore from the Anal Cunt glory-era. A bit more death- and gore- than the rest, and a whole lot more explicit than the rest. Fat-fuck extraordinare, “MC Cuntkiller”, was known to get around in KKK outfits, and various other hyper-offensive attire, meanwhile masturbating on stage and really getting into the swing of ~performance art~. A lot of tryhard posturing, and a whole lot of half-assedness, but with it a whole lot of silly fun. Hard to take seriously, but was it ever meant to be taken seriously?
In the same realm of child-stalker, pedophile power electronics (and death industrial) as the Sodality; … Today, I’m Dead; Taint, and the like. Disgusting lyrical themes and samples, accompanied by low, rumbling, distorted synth and the typical cold, detached monologues of PE stalwart Mikko Aspa. Heavily influenced by Peter Sotos’ work, albeit venturing in a more sadoperverse direction (whether for gratification or confrontation remains to be seen). Perhaps most shocking of all, however, is the cover art; which features a young girl, whose eyes only are crudely censored by way of scribbling them out. “For your eyes only.” (Also check the split with Taint:: sick shit)
Harsh Noise Wall
4-hours of noise-wall based upon the luxurious texture of Moncler coats (and with a perverted fetishist extenuation related to girls wearing those coats). Strangely fluffy walls, that are thick yet blanketing. Hours-upon-hours of enveloping, suffocating, yet strangely enjoyable harsh noise. Not quite as dedicated to the meta-minimalist as Vomir, yet definitely leaning towards the less dynamic end of HNW. A critique of consumerism, in the form of an irrational obsession.
Day of the Rope
David Rodgers is as David Rodgers does. Racist power electronics delivered with a tone of conviction, alongside very typical, but ever-so-well executed USPE. Lots of digital feedback, distortion pedal loops and synth rumblings. As with all of his projects, Organised Resistance is characterised by Rodger’s callous, disaffected vocals and his quite explicit, yet intellectually workable criticisms of multiculturalism and globalism (which are, in this instance, based upon the Turner Diaries: https://archive.org/stream/TheTurnerDiariesByAndrewMacdonald/turner-diaries-william-luther-pierce_djvu.txt). Ethnocentrism presented from the viewpoint of the disenfranchised. Incitations of action instead of feeble rhetoric.
One-note synth throb as accompaniment to a very depressed, very disturbed man’s emotional blood-letting. Familial misadventures, teenage sexual experimentations, broken relationships, and what presumably seems a suicide note all wrapped into one. I probably overestimate this due to my own family issues and how close to “home” this all is. Still a chilling document of a life wasted, a man self-aware enough to admit it, yet brave enough to end it.
Satyriasis And Nymphomania
Probably the sloppiest, most retarded deathgrind-by-way-of-goregrind that exists. The mix is a clusterfuck of mistakes (the vocals are recorded over the bass and thus the two mix together to form a strange kind of bottom-end sludge, the cymbals clip all over the fucking place). Weird Latin porn samples fill up upwards of a quarter of the runtime. As degrading to listen to as it would’ve been to make. The domain of true degenerates.
Tha Tour Pt. 1
Being honest, Rich Gang are shit roughly 76% of the time. This, rather than my advertisement for a tape that itself acts as an 80-minute advertisement for everything YMCMB-affiliated, is my placeholder for Lifestyle (which doesn’t exist in the sput db because there’s this fantastic “no singles” rule -- but I digress). Lifestyle is more than anything, that blurring of that line between the accessible mainstream and the more experimental side of trap rap. Thug’s voice contorts and twists as though formless, the typical, “came from the bottom now we here,” message that the lyrics ~attempt~ to convey merely an obstacle for the autotune-driven warblemorphing. Homie Quan acts a solid hype man, but it is really Young Thug that steals the show....
Tha Tour Pt. 1
And with such a barebones beat (driven by little more than a piano loop, a nice little synth melody and some really fucking banging bass), it requires a performance such as that of Thug’s; the listeners distracted by the vocal acrobatics, blissfully unaware of the mere adequacy of all the other components. On the real though, how the fuck is this so catchy?
Ultra Shit Folk
Folk/Noise/Free Improvisation/Noise Rock
Far-right power electronics with an emphasis on everything depraved. Untitled is probably the most uncomfortable and genuinely disgusting PE there is (shifting from what sounds like Mr. Pogrom masturbating, to moaning in pain, and going through one of the worst psychedelic/dissociative trips imaginable). Hatred and mental instability caught on tape. I hesitate to call the guy mentally unhinged, but with shows trademarked by self-harm and quite literal filth-wallowing (think throwing shit, pissing pants, etc.), I struggle to think of anything more accurate and descriptive.
Read and Listen: https://expressions-of-interest.com/2016/10/28/yeah-we-get-it-you-dont-like-music/
Writing descriptions enough to leave a nigga head spinnin’, for real.
Goregrind/Slam Death Metal/Stochastic Music
Okay, I’ll admit the “Stochastic Music” tag is a little bit of a stretch, but there needs to be some kind of acknowledgement of the fact that the drum machine reaches a strange pinnacle of brokenness (or misuse) on Screwrot’s brilliantly titled “Redigested Regurgitation”. It straddles that fine line between slammy-goregrind and gorey slam, mainly because the slams, although bouncy and rhythmic as per the “Babykiller Guide to Slammin’ like a Fat Wigger”, are rendered but a kind of bouncy murk; largely thanks to the drum-solo machine, that really does steal the show. The song-writing is remarkably regular, not erring for the mega-minimalist Cephalotripsy-style of slam nor the tech-wank groove-fests of the Russian scene. Instead, everything follows a very simple, regimented structure, only to be fucked up by the drum machine. I cannot overstate how spectacularly retarded this drum programming is, honestly...
And to think that the guy who programmed that bitch is a part of our society…
Misogynist, stalker power electronics. Made for those night-crawlers that hang around nightclubs late at night, waiting for some drunk “slut” to stumble out; ready to be taken care of. Musically not too dissimilar to the majority of the Finnish scene, albeit with a sense of distance (perhaps a by-product of the slightly lo-fi recording quality) and an emphasis on atmosphere (not in the typical ~space~ and ~ambience~ sense, but in the development of a pervading vibe). Eery, familiar, but disquiet. A violent outburst waiting for the right moment.
The pinnacle of human depravity. First-hand recounts of rape and abuse, tinged with grief and cynicism. Sotos’ interviewing style is perhaps what makes Buyer’s Market so effective; the dissociated, emotionless, “and what happened then?” standing in direct contrast to the wavering voices of the emotionally broken whom he interviews. Both a snapshot of how disgusting humanity can be as well as a callous rejoinder to that immutable question of, “why do you care?” As inhuman as the recounts may seem, it is undeniable their grounding in reality. As cohesive and impactful an artistic statement as has ever been made.
A shift in perspective. Whereas Buyer’s Market recounts the depravity of man from the perspective of the victims, Kiss provides a hateful justification; a snapshot into the mind of the killer, the rapist, and the abuser. And combined with the strange paper trail that leads to Strict and his work, there becomes a mysterious allure; and an inquisition as to “who the fuck” this sicko is. Compound this with the images of transsexual streetwalkers and innocent, nameless children that make up the music videos (or at least fan videos, made by someone quite close to the man himself), and there grows a reeking inhumanity. The conviction with which he screams, “DIE FAGGOT WHORE,” begins to seem authentic, and the incitations of hatred and abuse paint a picture of a man mentally unhinged. Some of the harshest, vilest, most hateful power electronics on the planet.
Feedback, static and a lust for blood.
We Spit On Their Graves
10-cassettes of primitive, serial-killer obsessed power electronics from the masters of the 80s (yeah, I know). Kevin Tomkins sounds a man possessed, and for once, there is actual shock value rather than the more common self-parodying derivatives. Not necessarily unique, but a statement that the Tomkins owned the scene, which he set to prove by making the most cacophonous racket possible. Distortion-pedals, radio-static, and microphone feedback layered upon each other in the ultimate display of (male) dominance. Influential, scene-defining, and perhaps most importantly of all, dedicated to the dark, twisted underbelly of society (of course, what better rolemodels are there than the serial killers of the world). Beating the punks at their own game.
Resting Beneath the Sewers of Hell
Black metal filtered through the lens of gorenoise. A weird mix of trems, gurgles, blasts and shitnoise. As entrancing as it is disgusting. Remarkably digestible for something so uncompromising, but ultimately a brilliant amalgam of two genres seemingly opposed. A real fucking bitch to find (since it was released in a very kvlt edition of 5), but can be found in bits and pieces on some of their comps and splits. Straightforward, satanic, but slightly necrophilic blackened gorefilth.
We Are the NSBM
Black Noise/Power Electronics
Lo-fi “white-power electronics” with a slight black metal bent. A lot of love for Hitler and a lot of hate for “niggers” and “kikes”, but realistically that’s to be expected of someone that runs works under the pseudonym of “Totenkopf Commando”. Fairly straightforward in execution, albeit extra muddy given the emphasis on being as ~raw~ as possible. Real raw shit for metalheads that like to pretend they’re noiseniks from time-to-time without sacrificing that oh-so-important kvlt-cred (gotta be cool for the bros at metallum, I know). Is to power electronics as thanatoseptis is to gorenoise.
For those that want something like this but with a greater emphasis on the metal and less emphasis on the noise, hit up Blackmoon Warrior 88. Good shit (and it retains the white supremacist inclinations too for all you xenophanes out there).
|57||Urinary Tract Infections from Severe Pus Clots|
Urinary Tract Infections from Severe Pus Clots
Anal Birth worship that brings the filth. Non-stop tempofluid drum-machine blasting, overdriven bass and gurgle-vomit vocals; the perfect gorenoise template. Filthy and depraved, dedicated to the sewage from which it was conceived. Gorey, noisy and disgusting. A perfect combination, even if simian-simple. For the real raw Gs.
Of a Hermaphroditic Enema and an Urophilic Piss...
Drum-machine and bass-driven gorenoise, with a coprophilic bent. Brings a quite literal definition to “shitnoise” (perhaps not as literal as Abosranie Bogom, but nonetheless), fusing the sludgy insanity of Last Days of Humanity (which Urine Festival was a side-project precursor to) with the kind of spastic drum-machine backfires that Screwrot and Anal Birth pioneered and trademarked in their respective scenes. A classic in its own right. (Also check Blennorrhea and Prosthetic Cunt if you into this ish)
Harsh Noise Wall
Not much I can say about Vomir that I haven’t said at some stage before. The master of miasmatic, unchanging, nihilistic harsh noise wall. Impenetrably dense, uncompromisingly harsh, turbulent yet constant static noise. A post-Cageian take on noise; minimalist, emotionless and destructive beyond measure. Combine the noise with his eccentric persona and strange live shows (in which the crowd are handed out plastic bags which they are encouraged to wear over their heads), and you get something of an anti-musical masterpiece. Sensory deprivation as sound. Embrace nothingness, it’s where we all belong.
Power Electronics/Field Recordings (for that one Peter Sotos joint)
Mainly here for Bennett’s borderline-genius lyrics which manage to fuse cynicism and sardonic humour quite seamlessly. Noise-wise it’s not much more than your typical post-laptop era sample-based fuckery (with that slight Whitehousian twist) and programmed percussion, but for what it does, it does it well. Lyrically though, there’s a kind of quasi-political, half-commentary framed in the context of twisted narratives and Sotos-inspired lamentations. On the topic of Sotos, his 20-minute contribution is as soul-destroying and gut-wrenching as ever. Most effective of all is the one-two punch of Philosophy (which is an extension of Mummy and Daddy’s “Philosophy of a Wife-Beater”) and the aforementioned Sotos rape-diary interview-collage...
The believability of Bennett’s portrayal of the wife-beater is immediately startling, and followed by the quite cunningly chosen interviews of familial abuse victims portrays a painful reality largely unparalleled musically. A twisted view of the world as told to you by a man whose experience with it has only ever been negative.
“Just remind yourself
Remember you're fat
Remember you're stupid
Remember you're ugly
Just like your fucking mother
Just like your fucking father”
|62||White Noise (AUS)|
The Final Solution!
If the name don’t give it away, nothing will. Bigoted as fuck Australian scum-punk for those that like wearing Doc Marten’s while lynching minorities. Shit for rompin’ and stompin’ too (shoutout to Russell Crowe). As is par for the course for most punk: a lot of hate, a lot of stupidity, and a lot of senseless violence. And if that isn’t as representative of the white power movement as a whole, I don’t know what is. RIYL: calling your “Asian mates” gooks, the concept of a white earth, xenophobia, screwdriver, raising your right arm.
An autobiography of segregationist hate, written by the xenophobes, for the xenophobes. RIOT RIOT RIOT SKINHEAD STYLE.
Wold – Badb
Fairly by-the-book black noise, as made by the Sasquatchian genre poster-children. Typically frostbitten and jagged, overloaded with distortion (or perhaps just post-post-demo recording quality), and as such perhaps holding more in common with power noise than black metal (except for the kvlt-cartman vokills which somehow hammer home the arctic vibe along with providing that element of humourous self-awareness). Occasional melodies pop through, but they are sparse at best, and for the most part, what you get is witch-obsessed black noise made by housebound canucks. Filthy to the ears, not to the mind.
Cleansides Finest 3
Cloud Rap/Trap Rap
Give or take the “bogus” rape charge and the fact that he raps about dealing crystal and PCP rather than white, Gleechie is somewhat of an anomaly in the trap scene. Production-wise, he errs towards the cloudy-shit a la Kray and Nobody-era Sosa, yet his ability to turn such downtrodden, lackadaisical beats into turn up anthems (see: Water) and half-contemplative odes (see: Gleechie), is remarkable. It’s odd. For a guy that deals so much with stimulants, his music seems altogether more dissociative; Gleechie’s world one almost entirely separate to ours, where the colours are more vivid, and the actions without consequence. A charismatic persona selling ideals of consumeristic nihilism and material obsession. A sonic journey through the four plateaus of DXM trips. Just watch out for the slowly moving polymorphoids at the third (and an extra “watch out” for those that add nicotine to the mix)...
Cleansides Finest 3
|66||You're Wrong / Vaginal Pentagram|
Anticipation and a Lack of Comprehension
A dialectical view of the current noise scene. You're Wrong provide a nice 1-minute slab of cyberblasts and feedback, in a manner that would recall a more (post-)modern Agathocles, whereas Vaginal Pentagram offer their trademark lacerating harsh noise, albeit chopped up into tiny snippets, and separated by morally ambiguous samples. A 2-minute trip into masochism and the derived pleasure of self-harm, and a tasteful dedication to the anti-musical cause.
"You're Wrong is A Hack Musician"
Wank of Death
Horrorcore/Whatever you would call the Australian equivalent of Memphis Rap
Sir Shitwank is back at his thing again, except instead of making of "harsh screaming shit noise" he finds himself working within the realm of Memphis-tinged horrorcore. MC Bushpig (a.k.a Shitwank) sounds like he's smoked all his life, and in his half-growl, half-cough he tells lovely tales of depraved sexual acts and murder rites. Lyrically it reeks of GG Allin and Ingested Lobotomized Remains, yet it sounds more like a weird combo of Syringe, Frayser Click and Death Grips (if they weren't so deliberately awful). "DRINK MY DIARRHEA WHILE I'M BUTCHERING YOUR VAGINAL LIPS, BITCH YOU'RE GONNA EAT MY SHIT, SUCK MY SHIT, OFF MY DICK."
|68||Drowning in Phemaldehyde|
Blistering Corpse Abortion
Slam Death Metal/Avant-Garde Jazz
The dumbest slam ever conceived. Mark Rawls is probably still in kindergarten. Basically, funeral-slam with a complete disregard for cohesion or the concept of "playing in time": so incompetent and formless that it resembles some kind of avant-jazz high art abstraction. Artery Eruption for wiggers that genuinely believe KFC to be michelin-star food. Vocals are somewhere between cricket, pig and mental patient. A blissful display of human stupidity, and exhibitionist proof that Reynols aren't the only band with a few too many chromosomes. Slam 'til death wigga, slam 'til death.
|69||Bakbakwalanooksiwae / Antikriist|
Black Metal/Power Noise/Electroacoustic/Free Improvisation
Demented black metal with no-fi production values, thus rendering it a kind of rhythmic noise/electroacoustic bent. Snare-bashing resembles machine-gun fire, trems turn into a kind of hyper-reverberated hum, and the vocals hit a point so distorted that they resemble the techno-era Meat Shits vocal chopping and screwing that made For Those About to Shit... so disorienting-yet-alluring. The discogs of both artists are involved, even if just to get a better taste of their epithetically confusing take on black metal. Pseudo-psychedelic uber-raw black noise that reeks of shit. Satanic Goats Attack!!!
|70||rancid shit wank|
Harsh Noise (Wall)/Gorenoise/Power Electronics
Probably the only instance in which the lame self-dubbed genre tag is close to the mark. Self-proclaimed “harsh screaming noise shit” is essentially just that: harsh noise, plus a whole lot of hysterical screaming about shit, with the occasional Perrot-esque excursions into tuneless guitar shred. Practically unlistenable; for those that find the idea of fucking their cum-dumpster sister appealing, and/or reside in the bowels of hell (which just so happens to be Melbourne, Australia; the same place snox calls home [coincidence, I think not]). Depraved both in sound and theme. Listen at your own peril.
|71||rancid shit wank|
As a side note, just look at that fucking cover. Jizz-covered ass plus blood-covered-stool with mildly blurred vagina (that suspiciously seems to be leaking cum a la creampie) in the background, and smegma covered, wart-ridden dick in the foreground (with crude censoring of the dickhole to protect the eyes of the children): as all drawn by shitwank himself.
|72||Fetal Brain Disruption Sequence|
Fruity, synth-driven beats, trebly, distorted guitar, and a nice combination of the underage-girl screams of HKSC and the more typical gore-gurgles. Prosthetic Cunt-meet-HKSC-meets-Igorrr-meets-crystal meth or some other equally awful concoction of misfitting sounds and drugs. A spectacular clusterfuck of all things horrible and musically inept (also see: Puerkochino and S.M.E.S). Sounds cheaper than the hooker these guys trained on the night they recorded this. An inglorious shitsterpiece.
|73||Mattin and Taku Unami|
Distributing Vulnerability to...
Experimental/Free Improvisation/"Emo Noise"
Realistically there's practically nothing "noise" about the quite aptly titled "Distributing Vulnerability to the Affective Classes". 60-minutes of two Japanese men moaning, laughing, and crying their hearts out. Cause unknown, goal unknown. A pseudo-symbolic exploration of what "emotion in music" actually is, and what it means to be truly ~affected~. Does reek a bit of Mattin's whole generi-Marxism-on-overdrive philosophies, but only ever-so-superfluously. And detached from it's context, it is still as affectatious as it claims to be... Does as the label says. Strangely personal yet and immensely unsettling.
|74||Mechanical Elephant Audio|
Side A & Side B
Dark Ambient/Noise/Sotos Worship
What sounds like deepthroat/gagging/incest porn with a whole load of murky amplifier worship as a kind of backbone. Feels like the piss-stained basement in which said "porn" (or perhaps ~homemade movie~) was filmed. Voyeuristic in a way that is quite discomforting. A junky passed out on an amplifier, with "Mikko Aspa's favourite movies" playing in the background. Disgusting, revolting, but forever gripping. Shocking to the point that you can't look away.
One of the less ~out there~ picks on this list, just for the fact that it isn't any kind of conceptual mystery, and/or escapade into the deconstruction of music. Rather, it's by-the-by-the-numbers EAI, albeit devoid of any of the tact and restraint that makes it normally so impactful. Emotionless, yeah; sonically pleasing, at times; well-composed, not in the slightest. Thoughtless improvisation; so much so that it sounds like a few people just "fucking around" with electronics to figure out what sounds they can make. Almost rehearsal-like in its amateurity. A kind of ~outsider~ approach to improvisation, whereby the end goal is non-existent, and it all revels in painfully aimless splendour.
|76||Runzelstirn and Gurgelstock|
Asshole / Snail Dilemma
Sound Collage/Musique Concrete
Incoherent screaming, shrill strings, typically-musique concrete skronks, blaarps and clangs, all tied together with a sense of sound collage-esque aimlessness. At times terrifying, and others soothing; albeit all wrapped in a veil of ~insanity~. A haunting and unequivocally uncomfortably surreal portrait of anomie in the modern age. Slightly reminiscent of latter-era Gerogerigegege so far as it balances that off-the-wall quirkiness with effectuality; to the point that it feels like it shouldn't be so terrifying, yet manages to be despite all inclinations opposed. One of the pinnacles of sound collage and electroacoustic music.
Mega lo-fi slam engulfed by over-processed gurgles/growls and a drum-machine concerned only with tempoconfused blast beats. In a way reminiscent of demented club music for gore fanatics; the terribly placed samples similar to a dj trying to hype the crowd, and the 240bpm four-on-the-floor blast beat of the drum machine mixed so far forward that it renders the murky riffs barely distinguishable. It seems odd to say, but Facial Paralysis is probably the best example of death metal "made" for pumping loud and getting crunk to. "Nigga turn up".
Sound-collage-come-HNW, with a very very slight electroacoustic bent. Otomo Hava's self-dubbed "chaollages" do, for the most part, live up to their name; the endless layering and distortion/stretching/recontextualisation of various familiar-yet-foreign resulting a wall much more dynamic than most. It creates a false-sense of disorientation, whereby the usually identifiable patterns are obscured by the chaos inherent to so many sound sources overlapping and interfering with eachother. As such, there isn't that same ability of the less dynamic noise walls to fade into background hearing, rather the walls claustrophobic and unrelenting; demanding to be heard... A test of endurance.
Mechanica no. 1
Industrial Techno/Outsider House/Deconstructionism
Not so much dedicated to filth as some (read: any) of the other releases on the list, but an interesting deconstruction of the techno/house philosophy. The opener acts as a kind of antithetic to the "banger", lingering on a quite rudimentary beat/groove for 13-minutes, folding and unfolding on itself. Synth notes fade in and out, and the beat glitches on rare-occasion, but nonetheless, it seems more the foundation to the traditional "maximalist" banger rather than anything akin to one. The back half treads closer to more ~typical~ industrial techno territory, albeit, with a more sparse, less hectic bent than any of the stalwarts of the genre. A little bit of reductionism here, a little bit of deconstructionism there, and a bit of minimalism sprinkled on top to leave with a nice, spacy, unclaustrophobic """outsider""" house/industrial tech release.
|whoalyshit what a list |
|i need a glass of water|
|big thangz poppinnnn|
|list rendered me aphasic |
|"whoalyshit what a list"|
My thoughts exactly, wooooooo
|yea this is neat|
|list brings the bile for sure|
could not make it through in one sitting
|w8 is xenophanes our guy?|
|liking the apprecaition for blakk noizz nd rawr blakk metall|
|rip another alt|
|yo fam rec me some of these|
|what would i like here|
|i'm gonna check 69 too. descrip sounds good|
|i c what u did there|
|; ] |
|why are you closed?|