Mosquitoes sawing away in birdcaged heads///---> flies leaving their twitching legs on the sticky paper... tiny fret coma's and Javanese squeaks...opening up to grief saturated violence, where rusty gates sound like gulls frying in power cables… The motion is slow, the angles and juddering forms leeching a jet black vibe... a riff mantra leaking out the best of Lee Ranaldo’s more apocalypto moments…
For the flip, the guitar is full of bad kebabs threatening to raise like a tidal Lazarus from your stomach... dislocating amp-age dragging an ink drenched compass through skin... Pneumonic, feverish… reminds me of a Kafka short story I once read or have re-imagined - where a man was fixed into a correctional apparatus that wrote his crimes into his flesh... Amongst the disfigured guitar you can make out distant screams, ritualised chant and sexualised insinuation... the machine carries on regardless through the bone to the other side, it's cutters eating into the framework that once held the accused....pissing smoke and arid tastes... continuing to rip into the soil, carve up trees, banqueting on anything, everything... This is desolate musick that even when finished, haunts your tinnitus with its sick aura…
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