White Suns Psychic Drift

[The Flenser; 2017]

Styles: noise, not rock
Others: The Body, Graham Lambkin, Kreng

It’s a weird Wisconsin summer, and I’m treading lightly under its irresolute gaze, chomping on my bottom lip as I wade through a tide of undefined gradients, oily Men ‘O War, expressionist shards, crooked tessellations, callow cries for justice. My enthusiasm for coaxing inspiration out of prepubescent Picassos is heliotropic; it’s my spine that’s sagging, anticipating this heavy season’s violent gravity. It should be hotter. My knees should be screaming. These exploding tangles of matter, universes trapped in 90-pound bundles, should be knocking me off my feet. Idle, my skin is sighing in tune with captive wonderment’s adolescent hiss.

It’s 5:06 PM. My feet sink into an empty room, overrun with abandoned totems, ancient ruins of a recently vanished civilization. I know my reprieve from this most recent cataclysm’s tinnitus is a deeper, dampening noise. A “psychic” noise that “gets me” without asking too many questions, like:

“If you could be any animal, what would you be?”

“Fuck, a Giant Sloth. I’m going home now.”

Today, my reprieve is anything but settling, yet far from iconoclasm’s satisfying obliteration. This NOISE isn’t blowing apart my morning’s splinters; it’s slowly pushing them in. Its steady drone isn’t steading my turbulent exodus from my own warm cocoon; it’s casting a black shadow on my hesitant first steps, rendering my muddy footprints useless as a way back into solitude. At least I have my hands.

Every summer, as a time filler and as a selfish excuse for diffusing impressionistic glitch into a room bound by vibrant, historicized realism, I play a few cuts from Replica, itself an artifact devoid of its original meaning, instructing: “paint this.” A greyscale sunrise, a pool of refracting glass, a tablet of otherworldly glyphs confirm that this “latticework of sibilants, laminals, clicks, implosives, ejectives, fricatives, pulmonics” is ultimately intuitive.

Storms from now, this as-of-yet developed snapshot will be my year without summer, its specificities, its rotten fruit forgotten and buried, decaying under collapsed laughs and scoffs. It’s 7:39 PM and it’s still raining, but today, a reluctant golem asked me:

“If you lived in Ancient Egypt, how long would you survive?”

I replied, channeling seventh grade Kandinsky:

A Year Without Summer

As long as I can see that sliver of sunlight peeking out over a world blackened by uncertainty, feel its slithering warmth, hear its crackling hallelujah, I’m sure Pharaoh won’t get me down.


Some releases are so incredible we just can’t help but exclaim EUREKA! While many of our picks here defy categorization and explore the constructed boundaries between ‘music’ and ‘noise,’ others complement, continue, or rupture traditions that provide new forms and ways of listening. Not all of our favorites will be listed here, but we think each EUREKA! album is worthy of careful consideration. This section is a work-in-progress, so expect its definition to be in perpetual flux.

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