After provoking just a bit more than a shrug following a live performance in a Brooklyn dive and conspiring to create one of the dullest albums of 2015 alongside fellow droner Loke Rahbek, I slunk towards this salmon spirality skeptical yet hopeful. And maybe I've since grown more masochistic, or her aesthetic has become more efficacious -- most likely a lil bit of this and a lil bit of that -- but this time around she has spawned a screech-n-thud stew that is not only sincerely frightening, but ups the vigor and variance. The all-out bleakness is torturous and engulfing, but its inundation of the digitally damned is quite the riveter: suitability for horror-score material is sealed when a xerox of Hellraiser's Chatterer rattles on through, strident screamin' comes off equal parts abused machine/garbled human/dinosaur in the distance, and it still engages amid lowdown creepin'; staving off inertia and keeping mystery a-flowing. Motifs for deadpan+barely audible spoken word: the marriage of sperm and blood, the scratching and peeling of skin, you know.
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