Diskette Romances
Diskette Romances [CS; Sunup Recordings]

And as every day repeats itself as a seven year old so does sound, but internally and at memory’s pace. The tanning salon waiting room becomes a (almost) daily breakfast nook, and UV goggles provide heated vision underwater at the pool. Time matters in snippets of what you think is pleasant. Tissue strengthening is rooted deep in release. Serious times come with lunch and chunks of “pepperoni,” which is brushed off into someone’s Pepsi. Station wagon rides are always a shootout. Bathroom visits present the most primordial brevity, at length by each shoe. The wheels hit a bump and ice cream cones are stuck to the ceiling. Digging deep unearths hidden backyard treasures. Chlorine blur sets in with the street lights at night, and the smell of small-town barbecue swells the streets. Echoing karaoke music twilights the neighborhood surrounding your house, you flick on the computer, experience Diskette Romances, and pretend tomorrow will be more surprising.

Links: Diskette Romances - Sunup Recordings


Cannibal Oven / Poisoned Baptism

[7-inch; Fedora Corpse]

Hogra’s 7-inch slab of death is so pig-fucked it’s absurd, a moveable noise feast of burbling underbelly, buzzing insects, whirling tornadoes, shamanic-trance voices, and sheets of static blown by a vicious wave of hell-wind. It’s like when Frodo puts on the ring and the conscious world disappears and all that is left is a nightmarish dreamscape of sharp colors and shadows. But here I go gettin’ ahead of myself again; that’s just the extremely lovable Side A. Flip-flop this sum’bitch for a different approach to non-metal mayhem: Al Jourgensen man-shouting, more of that ass-flapping wind, and a dangling rhythm that almost distracts, slapping the face every so often when there’s already plenty to mull over. Get OFF, guy!

Links: Hogra - Fedora Corpse

Midday Veil

Subterranean Ritual II

[CS; Translinguistic Other]

I often think of Midday Veil as the post-Thanksgiving hangover. Eyes glossy from over-indulgence, fingers greasy from ripping apart a baked carcass like Caligula — of course, this could be any sort of Ozark celebration. Midday Veil is actually a fixture of Seattle’s underground, but Subterranean Ritual II indulges in the abundance of ritualistic temptation. Sensual and mystical, Subterranean Ritual II is the rhythms of a world gone completely mad for all the right reasons. For some reason, I’m taken to the scene in Almost Famous (bear with me) when the underage journalist is deflowered by Fairuza Balk, Bijou Phillips, and Anna Paquin. It’s a PG version of True Blood without the gory disembowelments and vats of viscous blood. SRII is far from PG; it’s dirty and bloody, but it’s a delight of all the senses, Midday Veil picking up where Pocahaunted would have if they had been birthed by the Manson family. For a band that can often boast six members, everything is relatively subdued. It ratchets up the sexual tension. It’s not overt, but it exists among a psychedelic sheen of elongated whispers and Alejandro Jodorowsky. Just shed your cloths and join in the orgy of sound and sex. Caligula, fat on turkey, and heavy with wine.

Links: Midday Veil - Translinguistic Other


Hexplore Superfluidity

[12-inch; Hundebiss]

The Hundebiss “sound” — is there a such thing? I tend to believe there is, though it’s a fluid beast that doesn’t sit still for long. Stargate’s Hexplore Superfluidity one-sided 12-inch fits snuggly into the label’s lexicon with previous releases by Sewn Leather, Hype Williams, and JAWS, combining the welcome warmth of bygone electronix with a warped-tape, frayed-edges sensibility. It’s sort of like walking into a novelty store and realizing all the wind-up toys have been wound and set loose, then watching with amazement as the floor gives way and the entire structure is consumed by blurry blue water. Or at least that’s the vibe I get from “Dawn of the Cryonics.” Is it just me or are a lot of people auditioning to retroactively score the movie Bladerunner? Stargate murder chillwave and shove it into a Commodore 64 disk drive, where it belongs.

Links: Hundebiss

Motion Sickness of Time Travel

The Cirque

[3-inch; Hooker Vision]

In collaborative settings, the personalities of each participant can potentially engulf the other into a gelatinous blob of unified thought that threatens individuality. But then there are those who strengthen each other, trading creativity and energies that spew forth in solo projects. Rachel and Grant Evans of Quiet Evenings have become such a couple, pushing one another into exciting terrain rather than allowing Quiet Evenings’ wholesome expressions to do their speaking. And with Motion Sickness of Time Travel, Rachel’s solo voice has grown louder and more confident with each outing. The Cirque, released on the pair’s own Hooker Vision label, is a puffed-out chest of compositional fortitude. Dissected into three distinct movements, the release is Rachel’s restraint in the face of relentless sonics. Where others are abandoning the sounds of silence for overabundance, Rachel finds a new layer to MSOTT through the addition of melody: The Cirque, in spite of its avant pretense, embraces pop in its final acts, shifting away from abstract tinkering and endless drones and toward something fresh. Here, Rachel is once again triumphant in her own discovery process, with The Cirque acting as a loud yet sweet battle cry that partnership does not kill creativity.

Links: Motion Sickness of Time Travel - Hooker Vision

Esplendor Geométrico

1980-1981 Prehistoric Sounds - Necrosis En La Poya & More

[7-inch box; Munster]

With 1980s records like this, who needs the 2000s? Esplendor Geométrico, if that is their real name, refused to punt innovation down the road for subsequent generations to deal with. They went hard, and they went heavy; cold synth explorations rarely break this much ice. Pop in Prehistoric Sounds - Necrosis En La Poya & More and you can see your breath it’s so fuckin’ frosty, and it’s all about the synths and samples pounding out brittle rhythms as menacing riff-raff — vocal grunting, shooting sub-stars, squealing keys — encircle with guns drawn. All the craziness in the world won’t justify a synth solo, however, and EG are well aware of the pitfalls of overreaching, though they break a lot of eggs on their way to making an omelet out of your splayed brain matter, at times going right over the top and back again. A lot of bands are paying tribute to Esplendor Geométrico without knowing it, to say the least. Suicide, 39 Clocks, Wierd comps, Mike Sniper, other releases on Munster, Dark Entries; shit, I should have led with that. If echo is a god-given right, then is anger truly a gift? In the hands of these young Spanish audio-rebels, yes. Three 7-inches (red, black, clear), a booklet, a thick box, a black-eyed baby (no reason for… no reason for that), and a CD later, and you have yourself one of the best curatorial efforts of the last few years. You will wish you’d of heard this earlier.

Links: Munster

John Wesley Coleman III / Gary Stewart

“Oh Woman” b/w “Ramona”

[7-inch; Sophomore Lounge]

Clever stories of happenstance and craftsmanship drive this “underground” world in which we live. Take the case of “Oh Woman,” the A-side penned by John Wesley Coleman III. Inspired by B-side “Ramona,” written and released in 1988 by Gary Stewart, Coleman III and Sophomore Lounge amazingly worked out a deal to include the original on this 7-inch. For many, it will be their first encounter with either artist, but it’s likely they’ll be equally entranced by Ramona, the beautiful bride captured on the insert. “Oh Woman” finds Coleman III doing his best Richard Swift (unkempt hair and all), tuning into the 70s AM dial to channel Jackson Brown and Warren Zevon with a bit of modern attitude. Nuthin’ but a stomping melody and a fun pop song to neck to. “Oh Woman” owes much to Stewart’s “Ramona,” a bit more country and Brown than Coleman III’s melodic interpretation. It is a product of the era of over-production. Stewart’s long song confessing that he loves Ramona as his own is effective no matter the decade, but Coleman III’s lo-fi reinvention has more heartache. It’s not the glossy pop song that landed Stewart his pick of fans; Coleman III’s love is distant and unrequited. It’s bedroom despair dissected from the thoughts of someone who can paint a pretty picture from a terrible mess.

Links: Sophomore Lounge



[CS; NNA Tapes]

This is what exists. Or, no, it don’t exist. Yes it does. It’s just like you and me talking right now. We’re talking? Inside and out. But where does it begin? Slowly. Slow as a drip in sunshine. What’s that ticking? Follow it closely, for this ticking doesn’t really happen. It’s something I’m thinking of? No, it’s a way of life. Is that you talking aloud? No, but let it go. Let it go? I ain’t holding on to it. Based freestyle? Not this, no. This is more of less. It’s all around what you’re into letting go. And not the notion of emotion, but more of a molecular ordeal. The freer you are, the more you’ll excrete and envelop. As if in an envelope? Sure, like absorbing an envelope, but not exactly. Then how? It’s projected into matter we can’t see. What matters? That you belong and never dwell; be on Earth, don’t fully absorb yourself with it. Reeling? Maybe. Maybe it’s like reeling Discrepancies through your GOLDYiP GP-500 and Richie’s cell phone signal fucking it up as he walks past. Nahh, I don’t listen to cassette tapes no more. That’s okay, just listen to this one and you should be good for an evolving dance party at the local grocery with the fellahs dancing in the isle and lights flickering, the noise of the fridges inside the beat but also around your ears and swallowing your psyche whole. Really?! Not really. But reely.

Links: PHORK - NNA Tapes


No Honour

[7-inch; King of the Monsters]

Venowl’s No Honour 7-inch is just the sort of mangled, self-defacing black-metal maelstrom many of us want at the moment; no shame in delivering the experimentalism commonly promised but rarely brought to fruition. I could rip through 100 7-inches like this and never get bored. Lo-fi twice over, too, probably recorded by a boombox. Much of Side B (a re-imagining of the A-side that’s much heavier, provided by Iron Forest) consists of random drum-flailing and flagrant scene-setting, with a payoff breaking the tension every so often. True dedication to rank, slumlord-level metal serves Venowl well, as does the gray vinyl. From the label that brought you that glow-in-the-dark Servile Sect LP.

Links: Venowl - King of the Monsters

Halasan Bazar

How to Be Ever Happy

[CS; Moon Glyph]

We find out much about American culture when it’s placed in the hands of non-Americans. Thanks to the internet and an infinite flow of data, we’ve now discovered that American-made items provide a solid foundation that can only be dismantled and reassembled stronger and better than it ever was. Don’t you think Hendrix would lose his shit if he heard Group Doueh or BLK JKS? I’m sure acid casualties of the 1960s will be bouncing from sanitarium wall to sanitarium wall when they hear Copenhagen’s Halasan Bazar. It’s a radiant blast from the past that has taken 50 years to traverse time and space. Euro chic is always in style, and this time the electric croon of Fredrik Rollum Eckhoff and casual cool of Halasan Bazar remind us that the motherland does it better, even if we built it first. But How to Be Ever Happy doesn’t tramp down catwalks with couture expense (though it does sashay with confidence, despite its ennui), rather being the product of the neighborhood you wish you were cool enough to find when you backpacked Denmark. You heard American music spilling from the Korova Milk Bar and paid no attention, ignorant that it wasn’t the claptrap you’ve become accustomed to but rather an organic reinvention of the old, tired formula. You missed out on Halasan Bazar, so don’t do it again.

Links: Halasan Bazar - Moon Glyph

Cerberus seeks to document the spate of home recorders and backyard labels pressing limited-run LPs, 7-inches, cassettes, and objet d'art with unique packaging and unknown sound. We love everything about the overlooked or unappreciated. If you feel you fit such a category, email us here.