Sunday, July 05, 2020

Pumf








Godspunk Volume Twenty-One - Various Artists
PUMF. PUMF 798. CD

Quougnpt - Wear And Tear of the Thrust Bearing
PUMF. PUMF 805. CDR


Several weeks ago I received an email from someone offering up a copy of the new Godspunk various artists release for review. I replied that Pumf supremo Stan Batcow had long stopped sending me the Godspunk series after I rather ungraciously gave one a kick in the guts rupturing its appendix in the process. This due to the good to bad ratio being becoming seriously out of kilter, something that had been happening for a while and [most crucially] that there were always too many tracks by UNIT on them. A band I’ll never come to terms with. Besides, I was way too busy sealing up every draught in the house in an attempt to make it Covid-19 proof all while bleaching the three hundred face masks I bought on eBay and making a sign that said KEEP OUT! POSTIES AND DELIVERY DRIVERS EXEMPT. And then Stan goes and sends me one anyway. 

So what to do? Do I burn my ears once more with the ridiculous UNIT a band so deliberately obtuse they make Yes sound like Status Quo doing Derek Bailey, do I roll my eyes across the words The Large Veiny Members and wonder who the fuck would ever want to be in a band with a name like that? Oh and heres the taurus board who seem to prefer lower case and Stan’s own project Howl in the Typewriter who sound much better stripped down but thats hardly ever. They’re all still there bursting with energy and pride all of them waiting to unleash their music on me and I have about as much enthusiasm for this as a Hermes driver on overtime. So I thought I’d give it a listen. What harm could it do? Its not like my calendar’s bursting with social engagements these days and then theres always the urge to see if UNIT have got any better. Spoiler alert, they haven’t. If you like bands that in one song can go through ten key changes, twelve genre changes, five shifts in tempo and have a singer who sounds like the kind of person waiting to pounce on you in the pub so that he can tell you about his run in with the pigs at the CND rally in Hoxton then this is the band for you. If not avoid. 

As for the rest; Johnny and the Kaprikorns are a straight up and down shit kicking country band, Satanik Seagvll Sekt starts out all electro/punk and ends anthemic on seagull sounds, Harsh Noise Movement loop sounds to hypnotic effect, the taurus board is all digital reggae and The Large Veiny Members make Orb sounds for Glastonbury stoners. Saving my ears from total torment are Lettuce Vultures with some decent Yankee rawk thrash and Nil By Nose whose trip up north for a funeral [presumable Simon Morris’] is a spoken word piece of some significance with observations from his journey put to a soundtrack of synthy electronica. There’s a fridge magnet and booklets too, Stan puts a lot of work into these releases but as before, they’re just not for me.

By way of added torment came the unpronounceable Quougnpt. Here be seven tracks of mainly film, TV samples and pop singles all put together in a fashion so as to create new atmospheres. Plunderphonics I believe its called. Actually not that bad in places especially with the young lass reciting Spike Milligan’s the Ning Nang Nong. 

I came, I listened, I went back to bleaching my masks. 











Saturday, July 04, 2020

Opening Time














Saboteur/Saboteur [Yves Botz & Roro Perrot]
Decimation Sociale. CD/DL

Quentin Rollet & Romain Perrot - L’impatience des Invisibles
Decimation Sociale. DSCDQR. CD/DL

Maginot/Maginot [Romain Perrot & Paul Hegarty]
Decimation Sociale. CD/DL

Olivier Bringer & Romain Perrot - Histories de la Nuit
Decimation Sociale. DSCDDOBRP. CD/DL

Vomir - Social Distancing
Decimation Sociale. DSCDVOMIRSD. CD/DL


Clov and Hamm, in Beckett’s Endgame, wind up an alarm clock and then listen to it ringing. When it stops Clov says: ‘The end is terrific!’ Hamm replies ‘I prefer the middle’.



I see the pubs are open again. These now being the places where you can get an alcoholic drink and some mediocre food in an atmosphere that more closely resembles an operating theatre only with more idiots and squashed chips in the carpet. I’ve been going off pubs for a while now and especially since the smoking ban, seeing how fag smoke was the only thing masking the smell of stale piss in the bogs and the body odour of your fellow drinkers. Not that I smoke anymore. Between the ages of sixteen and forty you couldn’t keep me out of pubs, now you’d have all on getting me in one. Like a lot of other things in life, they aint what they used to be. If the future of drinking in pubs is sitting in perspex square in a Wetherspoons, being table served by someone in a medical visor and rubber gloves I’ll stay at home smothering myself in Decimation Sociale releases instead. Much more pleasurable.

Romain Perrot’s label is a depository for things struggling to find a home elsewhere and I quite like that. Its a brave man that puts out a CD of two men shouting and screaming at each other over scrabbled acoustic guitars and randomly hit electronic equipment for forty five minutes but thats Saboteur do. Its a good place to start for a French label, the word ‘saboteur’ deriving from the French word ‘sabot’ these being wooden clogs that workers threw into their machines [probably during the Industrial Revolution] thus wrecking them in the process. We used hammers, the French used shoes, whatever it takes people. Its what Perrot and Botz are doing to their instruments, their voices and our delicate ears. A live track as recorded in Paris in 2019. 

Its a similar set up for Perrot and Quentin Rollet with Rollet’s alto sax moving around Perrot’s lapping shortwave noise and unstable ambience. Rollet takes his horn apart, blows down the bell, clacks the keys and generally matches what Perrot is creating with [judging by the sleeve] a vast array of electrical equipment, keyboards and the effluvium of Parisian flea markets. Things take a turn for the savage on ‘Sans Aveu’ where electronically treated vocals from Perrot makes him sound like a cross between a Dalek and the singer from Bolt Thrower before Rollet does his best Albert Ayler impersonation on ‘La Tradition est une Trahison’. These juxtapositions of sax and all out synth blurt making for an ear opening experience. Last track ‘Embrocation Siamoise’ blossoms like a 70’s era Tangerine Dream opening. This is no bad thing.

When Perrot teams up with Paul Hegarty on Maginot the mood turns more industrial with another live recording as laid down in Paris and Hambourg. Its two central tracks being awash in tape noise and electro-acoustic clatter as first an American radio advertisement and then a call to a car insurance company are distorted and muffled to create disturbing atmospheres. This not unlike many an Illusion of Safety release with mundane conversation replacing the transgressive themes of serial killer confessions and the reminiscences of those who survived extreme torture. The last track here being a one minute and fourteen second ambient homage to Edgar Froese.

The most disturbing and challenging release of the five sees Perrot team up with Olivier Bringer whose vocal technique lies somewhere between the out-there workings of Ludo Mich and the terrified screams of a demented lunatic. Rarely have I experienced such ferocious deaf screams but there they are mingled in with simpleton gibberish and the noodly random synth plod of Perrot, as if a feeble minded idiot was giving an account of their troubled life while suffering agonising flashbacks capable of reducing them to intermittent, rigid terror. No track titles are given but I did catch the word ‘desolet’ sobbed over and over. At times Bringer sounds like a demonic succubus, at other like Papa Lazarous. Track four dissolves into the barely audible, just the merest of synth and Bringer mumbling to himself by track five he’s sounding like a crow.   

At least Vomir is doing the sensible thing by covering up. A black bin liner should repel even the most determined virus though getting around might prove difficult. The zeitgeist has been captured by the Harsh Noise Wall maestro, who I’m assuming is Perrot himself. Harsh Noise Walls though ... its been a long time. An hours worth of unwavering mid-range electronic cacophony delivered with enough low-end crunch to give it that clenched fist, bent elbow, curled lip, gurned face oomph. The volume is entirely up to you of course. I prefer mine at number four with headphones on. The opportunities for playing this at high volume sans 'phones being negligible should I wish to remain on speaking terms with Mrs Fisher to say nothing of the neighbours and if I do the same with headphones I loose all nuance. Maybe its my headphones? I do tip the toe into the noise waters occasionally though I'd never choose a Wall Noise release. For noise to work there has to be a dynamic, a shift in tension, lows as well as highs and Harsh Noise Walls doesn't give me that. Losing yourself in that maelstrom is all well and good but it's a largactyl versus speed, sledgehammer v chisel, shipping tanker v Ferrari, Liberace v Debussy, old pubs versus new pubs contest. Which is no contest at all. 













Sunday, June 14, 2020

brb>voicecoil, Palestine and the clouds above Outlane.







brb>voicecoil - Occupation by Killers
Muzamuza. MM24
One sided lathe cut LP + inserts/DL
22 copies.

With one of any number of current shit-storms to choose from its not surprising that the current situation in Palestine has been shoved off the agenda to some degree [though I do remember reading yet another story of an unarmed Palestinian being shot at a border checkpoint the other week]. What can I tell you about the Palestinian situation? Not much. I know that once upon a time they had some land and then they had it taken off them and since then theres been nothing but trouble. Whoda thunk that one eh? Oh and the British were involved of course. We just love trampling all over countries and then handing them back in worst state once we’ve done with them. Its what made this nation great.

Its a situation I feel I’ll never have a full grip on. I find the Northern Island ‘situation’ hard to fathom too. Once you realize that it all stems from Henry VIII deciding he fancied giving his first wife the Spanish Archer [El Bow] you have to think to yourself, surely you’ve sorted this one out already? Thats Henry VIII, the 16th century’s Donald Trump who is himself Hitler in an orange skin. Which brings us nicely around to todays surreal situation, something that involves a killer virus, statues to slave traders, racial equality, the environment, Brexit, police brutality, JK Rowling and whether Americans can make a cup of tea using a microwave. 

Did you see the idiots in Parliament Square yesterday? I’m still trying to find out what they were doing there in the first place? Maybe its because the footballs off and it was a sunny day, perfect weather for spitting on people having a picnic in Hyde Park, pissing up against memorials to police offers killed in the line of duty and having a ‘row’ with the riot police. Someone said they were there to protect ‘our monuments’ but seeing has how most of them had been covered up anyway it would appear the authorities had already done that job for them. I have the unfortunate pleasure of having to work with such people, the kind who get upset that Doctor Who’s a woman and that a meals not a meal unless it involves a huge lump of meat, the kind who will quite happily spill Stella down their Stone Island zippy top while pledging death, hate and destruction to anything that even sniffs of the continent.

I escape by reading and listening to music. Theres been much more of the former than the latter of late. I don’t know why this should be so. It goes in circles. The review pile is a quite healthy one but I’ve been putting it off, much preferring to retrace my Bennett, Bukowksi, Burroughs, Ballard, Beckett and Kelman steps [notice how most of my favourite authors have surnames beginning with the letter ‘B’? I tend to spend most of my time in secondhand bookshops near the door where bookshop owners eye me nervously no doubt thinking that I’m going to do a runner with an old paperback copy of Murphy].

‘Occupation by Killers’ pulled me out of the loop due to it arriving in stunning translucent blue vinyl. A single sided lathe cut thing of magnificence that hugs the sides of my turntable to absolute perfection. No label, just a twelve inch slab of wax with some grooves on one side. If you want digital then fine, you can have it, you can get the entire MuzaMuza back catalogue for a pound less than what this will set you back but then you’ll have digital and I’ll have a thing of beauty, a release that will probably never leave these four walls until I either move house or die, something that will remind me of the day Trump struggled to drink a  glass of water with one hand and the weekend we drove up to the moors above Huddersfield for the first time in months only to discover the views were obscured by low cloud past Outlane.

brb>voicecoil is Kevin Wilkinson, a long time ‘environmental audio manipulator’ from Newcastle whose label MuzaMuza releases sounds of a similar bent and in similar limited, most desirous editions. The twenty minutes of ‘Occupation by Killers’ originally saw the light of day in 2009 when issued as a three inch CDR on Muzzedia Verhead but is now forever encased in blue vinyl, or white, or clear or red depending upon your choice. All sounds are sourced from moulded plastic on wood and crushed tin on concrete the results being a masterclass in sound manipulation where you’re never quite sure what you’re hearing, a sound-world full of material stresses and tensions, the friction between surfaces creating an energy that dissipates slowly as the track reaches its conclusion. Its a termites nest or its Pan Sonic gigging from heaven. I know not. 





             
  

         


Saturday, May 30, 2020

Dai Coelacanth, Vile Plumage and the Burselm Community Radio Players







Vile Plumage - Three Sisters Lost in the Darkness of the Banbury Seam

Invisible City Records. ICR60. Cassette 

50 Copies.


Vile Plumage - The Amnesiac Experiences The Vortex As If She Were An Eel

No label. CDR


Dai Coelacanth - Someone Needs to Stop Them.

No Label. Cassette.






Hows the lockdown going? If you’re already thinking the Netflix subscription was a waste of money you could always try to block out the real world by submerging yourself in the mysterious world of Vile and Dai. Its what I did yesterday and it worked a treat. Cast away on an island of cassette noise, surreal messages and radio plays put together by disparate voices, I luxuriated, sunk deeper within the Poang, looked out on privet and sparrows, bees and dust motes, the sun shone. All was well with the world. Except it wasn’t.


I don’t know if you’ve noticed but this country, this sceptic isle, this Eden, this Aldi with the queue outside is being run into the ground by a lying, feckless, lazy, serial shagger, a man who thinks morality is for mugs, a vainglorious buffoon who has to employ an ideas man because he has none of his own, a stuttering waffler, a joker, a man with many deaths on his hands, someone who boasted of shaking hands with people in an hospital containing Covid-19 patients and who then got it himself, an idiot, a liar who employs liars and thinks nothing more of it than you or I would in deciding which shopping bags to take with us to our socially distanced supermarket. These are not good times.


I’ve been on holiday this week. Mrs Fisher is still being furloughed. Having no desire to go anywhere with our new found government sanctioned catch and spread the virus freedoms, we pass our days quietly at home. Mrs Fisher writing, me painting stood up in the kitchen with the sunlight and a gentle breeze flowing through the house. The weather has been glorious. Hose pipe ban next up. Car washes shut down just after they’ve been re-opened. I listen to the World Service and the afternoon concert on Radio 3, if its to my liking. This week there was a very strange Polish opera based on the works of a Romanian poet that sounded like something Kurt Schwitters could have penned. What the neighbours thought of it I have no idea but I think they think we’re a bit bonkers in here anyway.


These three arrived yesterday and I dug straight in. Poang, cassette player, headphones, pen and paper. I was in for the long haul. The Dai Coelacanth tape is a recycled TDK C90, spray painted black. Once I entered I had no idea when I would leave. This could be a ninety minute job. If you’ve ever had the chance to experience a ninety minute Dai job then you’ll have some ida of the situation I was getting myself in to here. I was trapped, carried away, stuck in on full volume [Mrs Fisher told me after my journey that the leakage from my headphones had given her a good appraisal of the release too]. Its probably the most deranged Dai release I’ve heard yet and thats saying something. His, being the world in which a thousand Dictaphone edits are Jackson Pollocked onto magnetic tape to create visions of 21st Century hell. This collision of commercial radio samples, shitty 70’s pop music, First Aid techniques, found Burselm street sounds and all-round general shitty noise are interspersed with the utterances of the man himself. As if giving out maxims of deep importance he emerges tourette like in periods of calm to deliver his maledictions:


I was a putrid human


Shopping for lamps always disappoints


Cut price paranoia


Don’t get any of it on your shoe


Do you love car parks?


The only thing you find here is bastards


One million worms


Always the worms. I think the man is obsessed. All these bon mots are worth memorising, try them out on your neighbours or the person two meters away from you in the supermarket queue. It’ll do wonders fro your state of mind. Maybe these snippets of Stokie wisdom are all taken from one of Dai’s novels in which the cut-up techniques of Burroughs and Gysin are deployed with debilitating effect? You could ask the man but you’d have to track him down first. The last time I saw him was in Greece. A chance encounter with a slippery character.


The trip was taken from me when the cassette stopped and automatically flipped. I prepared myself for the other side [not literally, though with Dai tapes you can never be sure where you’ll end up] and was met with heavy vocal loops, local radio and a perma-cheery DJ announcing The Stranglers ‘Golden Brown’ which is what it ran out on shortly afterwards. Listening intently to tape hiss for a few moments I eventually realised that I was getting no more and tried to reassemble my thoughts. 


Processing a Dai tape and trying to encapsulate the experience is akin to making sense of Pynchon. Don’t go there. If you like Burroughs and noise and whisky and the sound of litter blowing around Stoke gutters, all at once, all together, then this is for you. There is nobody else comes close to creating such chaos. Hold him dear to your hearts. 


Vile Plumage is Duke Burnett and Peter ‘Bunny’ Cropwell, though you may know them by other names and voices that may sound familiar to listeners of the above. Its them two you can see on the cover leant over a table with hoods up and horror masks on. Here be 21st Century ‘bring out yer dead’ chants, a world of ultra-murk and Wicker Man style tape sacrifice where boxes of scruffy 80’s chart cassettes are mulched down to Kagel fodder before being set alight. Where the wastelands of Stoke sit cheek by twittering jowl with budgies and grinding gears, where dust is the clog in the machine, a machine that keeps going long after everybody else has clocked off and gone home for fried eggs on toast. Horror voices, EVP’s culled from shut down Burselm bingo halls. The horror, the horror. 


Burnett and Cropwell, along with The Burselm Community Radio Players are also responsible for ‘ The Amnesiac Experiences …’ a radio play assembled from dialogue spoken by persons of an invited nature as set to a soundtrack of various sounds and noises. Several of these radio plays exist but this is the first I’ve come across on actual disc. Maybe the lockdown has provided the ideal opportunity for such a project? People stuck at home, connected by the internet, speak the magic words into your phone and send them to Burnett and Cropwell who weave their magic.


What makes these radio plays so enjoyable is the way that different accents, delivery of lines and found spoken word audio sits easily within a soundtrack that at times seems like a warm up for a TNB gig. Lines of dialogue hang in the silence as if looking for somewhere to settle, lines that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Hammer Horror film, dialogue taken from interviews with housebound people talking about their own personal history, people talking to themselves wondering if the window cleaner’s coming today or not, Cropwell words come at a steady stream, delivered in a measured tone as as traffic trundles up and down a nearby motorway and ducks fly overhead, disembodied voices appear like ghosts, then more silence and the creak of doors, care home sing-alongs, street walking Jesus bother-ers, drunken folk songs and rocking chairs. Imagine Jac Berrocal telling you a nightmare bedtime story while acting all the parts.  Lets all move to Stoke-on-Trent.



Invisible City Records



Burselm Crypt



http://helicotrema.blauerhase.com/radiophrenia/



http://crowversuscrow.blogspot.com/2016/09/the-crow-versus-crow-radio-show-105.html




 


 







   









Sunday, May 17, 2020

Life's a Gas, the Chocolate Monk People and James Kelman.








This is it then. Get used to it. Queueing to get in to the supermarket, your hair cut by the missus with scissors bought off eBay, back door surveillance, holidays in Britain where a pint of shitty lager costs six quid and the beer garden is patrolled by the distance police [all food and beverage brought to your table by a member of staff after you’ve ordered it via the app, no loitering in the toilets either and ultraviolet lighting to show that you’ve washed your hands properly], the avoidance of A&E for minor injuries, the avoidance of people in the street, joggers that kill, Face Time chats, online gigs and everything brought to your door by overworked, underpaid, stressed out delivery workers. At least nature is getting a rest from us. Airline travel? Forgeddubout it, who wants to sit in a metal tube at 30,000 feet for hours on end breathing recirculated germs all washed down with a tin of G&T, that’ll be ten pounds please and payment by contactless only. Just wait until winter comes around and next years gas and leccy bills start dropping through the door. Its still all a bit of a novelty for some I suppose, BBQ’s every day, sitting in the garden until you’re pissed and nipping out to the Co-op fifteen minutes before it shuts for another four cans and a half bottle of own brand brandy just to see you off. The future certainly looks anything but bright.   


I’m doing my best not to annoy the delivery workers by not buying anything. I know that this will eventually ruin the economy but for now I’m getting more of a kick out of revisiting older material. The insatiable urge to buy and consume new product, to discover new sounds and writers has hit a rock, lost three wheels and now lies in a ditch gasping for air along with all the dust gathering at Wall of Sound.


I find myself rereading books that have sat on my shelves for 25 years and LP’s that haven’t seen the light of day in decades. Last week I read James Kelman’s 1985 novel ‘A Chancer’, a book I read in the early 90’s but couldn’t for the life of me remember a single detail of. I knew that I enjoyed the book but the passing years have wiped every trace of it from the memory banks. So why not read it again. Which is what I did. After which I realised that I had lots of books on my shelves that I’d read and was of the opinion that they were truly worthy of my time and that I needed to revisit them, especially the Bukowski Black Sparrow Press originals, so why not re-read everything I already own? Pull up the drawbridge on literature, foot the brake on music, withdraw in to my own personal cultured world like I’ve withdrawn from the outside world.  


Having said that Dr Steg recommends that I should get hold of a copy of Charles Platt’s notorious sci-fi sex novel The Gas, a novel in which a gas leak turns the normally staid British masses into raving sex maniacs. Its a books that I’ve been getting around to getting for years and now may be the time. £4 via Kindle or read it via Google books? Mmmm. Then there’s Kelman’s The Bus Conductor Hines, another of his early 80’s novels which I’ve never read. Mmmm, £4 via eBay for a ‘like new’ copy including postage . Alright then once more for old times sake. Old habits die hard. Carry on now. Nothing to see here.









Robert Ridley-Shackleton - Cardboard Sane

Chocolate Monk 476


The self styled Cardboard Prince brings you his ‘back from the brink’ album. An album of two halves divided by a message to his fans informing them that he’s not going to commit suicide as he’s turned a new leaf, those days are behind him now. Where once stood Aladdin Sane now stands Cardboard Sane. The rebirth album for the No Audience generation. Whether this is all part of the Cardboard Prince schtick or a genuine outpouring of feelings I know not. I don’t know him that well you see, to be honest I don’t know him one bit. I’m not that familiar with his music either though some of it has found its way through these hands, but not for some time.


After listening to the gig that makes up the second half of Cardboard Sane I’m kicking myself that I never got to see him perform at the Sage during a recent Tusk fest. That would have meant being in close contact with someone who never stops talking though, whose audience never stops talking either come to that. The boundary between performer and audience being non-existent to the point of the audience actually being part of the performance. If ‘Saturday Night’ is anything to go by there wouldn’t have been much in the way of music either just Ridley Shackleton having a conversation with himself in much the same way a deranged Papa Lazarou would if he’d been told to warm up a Vic and Bob crowd, stream of consciousness words and sentences spat machine gun like and often ending in loud screaming, shouting and hollering as if the brain has come to some sort of impasse and the only way to unblock it is by shouting in frustration tourettes stylee. 


He is funny though especially when telling the audience [some of which he appears to be on first names terms with] to shut up because he’s performing. 


His songs, four of which you get before the I’m not going to commit suicide track are built around programmed synth beats and keyboard solos Sun Ra would have been proud of. A bit like Suicide for Twitch subscribers. The opener ‘Call Me’ pays no tribute to either Blondie or Astrud Gilberto but is instead an appeal to person or persons unknown and sets the tone for three tracks of misery all delivered in Ridley Shackleton’s sing-songy spoken voice. At least you can dance to this one. The beat is indeed infectious maan. ‘I Can’t Stand Me’ is more frenetic with Ridley Shackleton swinging between evangelistic preacher in hot mode, Michael Jackson going ‘whoo-hoo’ a lot and defeatist groans. The twelve minute ‘Opera’ muses on how shit the world is. 


I hope the lockdown isn’t having an adverse effect on the Cardboard Prince [cardboard being his preferred medium for carrying his Twombly-esque art, so I’m informed] nothing that would make him go back to where he was before Cardboard Sane because this has been fun.   





Chlorine & Possett - Ultra Fluff

Chocolate Monk 477


What a time to be in a band called Chlorine. Just take the recommended dose, usually a 99% dilute solution, intravenously, once a day while singing hallelujah and all your virus doubts be banished. Guaranteed peace of mind. Just ask the Orange Baby Man if you don’t believe me. He’s getting his most senior medical advisors to look in to it so expect results any time soon.

Word has it that the Chlorine and Posset met up pre Covid-1984 to jam the jam, to get wiggy with the wires, check the chakra, clang the clang, Chlorine with percussion electronics, Posset with Dictaphone and megaphone vokills. 


The 54 second opener pulls your ears wide open and shits in huge dollops of electro-acoustic speaker damage before taking you by the well washed hand into a cordoned off area where you will be met by a representative in full hazmat suit and explained as to what it is electro-acoustic music is all about. This being one of the three Zoundroom Blues that are to be found along your way. These several Zoundroom Blues being fingerposts to TNB territory; a compendium of holy howl and metal scrape with plenty of those life affirming ‘thumps’ that flatten your ear drum. Must be a North East thing.


All sounds being re-edited, remixed and reworked from hours worth of jam material, all boiled down to the very essence of juicy ear joy. Its not all clunk and clatter though, expect  

electro jazz skitter, industrial skreech, dominoes being shuffled, circular saws going through stubborn tree knots, Jenga towers collapsing. At ten minutes in length and the longest track of the twelve is ‘Cruize Clips Doo Boil Bricks’ which gives us the chance of greater inspection and introspection with dying cassette tape and rubbed violin sitting two meters apart from plonked European piano and African Kalimbas. Depth a-plenty lies in wait for the intrepid listener. Bravo sirs.



Dylan Nyoukis and Seymour Glass - No One Cares About The Drama Queen’s Potassium Intake

Chocolate Monk 479 


Another crucial pairing and a solid thirty minutes worth of audio gobble from two men who’ve probably been singing happy birthday while washing their hands for the last thirty years.


Howler monkeys, stretched plastic, newspapers a-flutter, cello’s being broken for scrap, murdered bagpipes, sea birds, toy pianos, sheets of tin as soundboards, the lost call of the last Dodo, bridge strings, parping, grunts, the intro to Hamburger Lady edited down to five seconds and sampled in to a one second bite, harps, guillemots, shortwave burble, Duncan Harrison, heavenly choirs, a computer from a 1970s James Bond film going batshit, voices, log xylophones, more parping, swimmers suddenly realising that they’re sharing the water with sharks, raspberries [made with the mouth], things made of metal hitting things made of metal, underwater jazz, made up languages, sci-fi synths, burbles, The Clangers, green wood being chewed, small dogs asking to be let out, someone going ‘ahah hehe’ on a loop, a parrot, squeaky pet toys, a cough, left ear cooing and all of it put together into a complete audio experience for the delectation of sonic explorers everywhere.



http://chocolatemonk.co.uk/enter.htm