earlier in the year i said this about the race to the bottom seven incher: with a sleeve that looks like it was designed by me drunk at four in the morning with a head full of medicine and my hands celltotaped to a broken felt tip pen. two tracks with the overdriven guitar sound of an nice old pink telecaster being gently forced into the guts and anus of a broken amp. some folk holler pop nonsense over the top of this distorto din. it’s frankly fucking ace. and the best silt 7” i’ve heard, oooh since the last bugger. more stuff soon on ecstatic peace. exclamation mark.
so here’s the latest stuff on ecstatic peace (vinyl on not not fun). exclamation mark (none required).
canadian folk singer dies after coyote attack said the newsbox this week. would it be bad form to suggest that this is a decent approximation of how this record sounds (and it’s called human taste y’know…)? probably. but i’ll blunder on regardless…
it has on occasion a weird leery folk scrawl mud-smudged across it’s chops in the same way magik markers sometimes do. it also has more frequently the violent skree of music being gently disemboweled by furry buggers with razorteeth and mucky nails. from the velvet underground rubbery chug on colors you drown which has all tomorrows parties’ thump and shake behind it to the spurting stooges spunk of modern vampire, it’s a confused cavorting beast of an album.
one that veers between dirge and drone, skewed skewered poppery, and flat out sloppy rock throb. a double percussive stew of stumbling dead c monomania and monged crampsian boogie shuffle and portland refugee associates smegma’s artless/artful wonk to fill yr belly yr boots yr skull with for fifty five minutes over these cold winter nights.
these fellas and fellettes sure know how to hootenanny.
