i had this dream recently where i pulled at a piece of string in my gob but the string actually went down my throat. and the more i pull the string up and out my gullet the thicker it gets. and because it starts choking me i can’t stop pulling at it. repeat ad infinitum.
kind of fitting soundtrack for this deranged bluster, this bludgeoning riot of gnarled filth and transcendental bad vibes i think.
oooff this is some hateful ugly racket. tinnitus inducing squalls of hissing feedback and an angry man bellowing through broken mics about how utterly utterly fucked everything is. a suffocating unmusical swamp. like a band being persistently booted down endless flights of junkie inhabited stairwells.
rusted shut have been kicking (ab)out for eons. this is only their fourth(?) record. in terms of to the point nomenclature ‘dead’ just about sums it up. organoleptically (man i’m getting in some good words just now) it hits the balls and guts as much as the brain.
it’s a visceral experience. and it is an experience more than a pleasure (in the traditional sense). i’m on the road to hell. you’re on the road to hell. quoth the raven.
don walsh. he’s a bit like if mark stewart drifted into noise instead of electronickery. a gibbering gibby haynes on cadaver-loads of downers spitting and snarling emotionally damaged diatribesagainst whateverthefuckstohand over a maelstrom of damaged instruments forced through damaged amps and recorded to damaged tape. a feast of abrasive sludge and corrosive misanthropy. this shit moves me in ways i don’t want to think about too much.
doing much the same thing as brainbombs in feeding eighties hardcore through a gruesome filter of psyched out free noise and numbing repeato- propulsive repulsiveness. but instead of misogynisticsneers and slasher movie aesthetics you get more of a personal biliousness and headfucked psychodrama that’s less hideously cartoonish but (maybe?) should still be taken with a pincha salt…
