“R O M A N C E”
With the addition of Nekophiliac to their digital zombie milieu, Pittsburgh’s Postlife collective furthers their inclination for that which moves beyond the realm of the waking.
Enter “R O M A N C E,” an insidious, respawning-within-you-and-elsewhere-at-once kind of love: fricative breakbeats lurch into being, out of an entombed era into this one with reanimated fatalism, graced with pentatonic steel drums evoking the onomatopoeic zen of a Chief Keef banger. Subterranean death rattles underpin the analog friction and digitally-precise hi-hats roll over the surface with the sheen of that which is Designed To Be And To Die. An eerie architecture, woven to unravel itself and slice you up into a Real Life Doll in its undoing.
Grab your copy of Nobody over at Hoko Sounds today – get it while you can; only 25 of these pink-shelled undead beauties walk the earth.
Walking at night, either home from work/train, or just taking the dog for a stroll/toke, you catch a shadow that’s not yours. A part of you sinks a bit, sure. You’re dog doesn’t notice, too busy finding a bone in the middle of the road, so you snap your fingers and tug her back onto the sidewalk; the separate shadow mingles with others.
Now, down in the field by the swings, that shadow is back, and black. Not even a wisp of grey. Pure linger drifting along the other side of the park, nearest the only exit. It perches there for awhile on the fence, the field is empty and suddenly filled with a screeching as a cat or opossum or pig comes running out of the forest, and not toward you, but just away.
The exit is clear. The dog is howling blood. The animal is in terror form, darting back into the dry-dead forest. The escape is flawlessly shadowed by a looming light flickering off, just down to the tickle of your nose. The sound somewhere still rattling and the immediately shut off. Growling.
TAPERS is coming out with a split album on So I Buried Records with Grimm Grimm May 25. Only limited to 100 copies, TAPERS track off cleverly orchestrated songs combined into the madness of night and/or ritual. The Grimm Grimm is equally fantastic. SCOPE!!!
“Live @Oval Space” [London, 14/04/14]
Call in sick tomorrow. It won’t be a lie: after 47 minutes of Merzbow, Mats Gustafsson, and Balázs Pándi, you will no longer be operating at full capacity. I watched the video of the trio’s performance at Oval Space in London on April 14, 2014, and I’m barely here writing this. I’m more ghost than man.
Gustafsson leans over his table of electronics. Sometimes he takes out his saxophone, or another saxophone. Merzbow mangles his freaky oscillator box and commands his own rig of pedals, rack-mounted weaponry, and mixing board. Pandi flits from blastbeats to d-beats to free-jazz cymbal fuckery. They are free, and we are free. Though we aren’t healthy, we have been released.
After the ecstatic assault of last year’s Cuts (which the trio has now adopted as their project name), the gang got back together for another recording. This time, it seems that they brought along one Thurston Moore. For now, all we can do is scrawl one red X on the wall every day until those recordings surface. That, and watch this set again.
DDUST REGOS [excerpts]
Yeah, that’s right. Leaving Records just redubbed a second edition of DDUST REGOS by Dakim. You missed it the first time? All good. ‘Cause it just popped out in edition of 250. Ad Hoc is on the business too! But may I break down these beats to a minimal degree as the beat-god does so in depth sonically?
The first bit of this excerpt of DDUST REGOS tastes like strawberry candy. That flavor of “Yes, it’s DEFINITELY [that fruit], but there’s no WAY it could actually be real.” Oh, the beat is real, it’s fluctuating throughout your cranium, and them brains at yo feet been movin’ since these musical frictions began waving since pressing PLAY button on SoundCloud. The second beat of the first excerpt dwells in the mystery of Dakim more-so than ever. Bass and bones and strings and switches and swinging pendulums: shit slangin’ in code hasn’t been this nasty since the NSA got called out.
The beginning of the second excerpt is the packages adventure. What’s that? Maybe an orchestra sped up, or a flute. Twinkles of woofer vibes channeling about the mind. Tape reeled in a directionless pattern that finds itself together and whole never seems to stop in the Dakim linage, as listeners can hear on DDUST REGOS. And “Oo Child,” the pain of fade piano and steady drumming to fade you into oblivion of mentality trails out the end of excerpt two, which brings me to:
GRIP THIS CASSETTE ASAP BECAUSE IT’LL SELL OUT AGAIN AN’ THEN YOU BE ALL UP IN THAT DISCOGS GAME TRYNA GRIP YOU THIS REEL AT ABOUT $1,000 WHILE ANOTHER (FUTURE) LEAVING TAPE IS POPPING OFF AND YOU MISSING OUT ‘CAUSE YOU DONE FUCKED YOUR COLLECTION TIMING. hi.
“Priest in the Laboratory”
So there you are, in the breakfast nook, about to tuck into a nice cup of chai. You prefer to call this room the “veranda,” but your better half insisted on the “nook.” Maybe it’s more of a “conservatory,” or like —
A peal of feedback rends the air, windows shatter, and objects hit the hardwood: snare drum, distortion pedal, a mic and an XLR cable. Three men climb in over the broken glass and start setting up right there next to the table. “Excuse me, but wha-” You realize that it’s White fucking Suns. In your veranda. White Suns is playing in your veranda (your veranda). But who’s this fourth guy, and what is that he’s carrying? Oh my god it’s RICK WEAVER, 1/3 of Form A Log, 100% of Dinner Music, the veritable Mozart of tape culture. “B-, b-, bu-, but.” You’re too star struck to even speak with all these underground heavyweights in your veranda. You don’t question Mr. Weaver as he straps his mysterious device over your eyes: it looks cobbled together from cardboard, raw meat, paste, feathers, driftwood, turquoise jewelry. Some kind of basement-born Oculus Rift. The band starts playing. You know the tune. It’s “Priest in the Laboratory.” But when Weaver’s visuals hit your retinas, shit gets really real. What did you do to deserve such an honor?
White Suns made a stunning record called Totem and released in on The Flenser in March. The label is out of copies, but you can find them at Midheaven. Or ask the band to sell you one before they leave the veranda.