three tracks of layered and processed channeling in honor of all trafficked humans and anyone trapped in cycles of pain and violence. sexual slavery is a special case of slavery which includes various different practices: 1. forced prostitution 2. single-owner sexual slavery 3. ritual slavery, sometimes associated with traditional religious practices 4. slavery for primarily non-sexual purposes where sex is common or permissible.
maybe not not fun should have changed to not not political for this one. and it’s probably no surprise that it’s from one of the dischord label’s finest alumni, daniel martin-mccormick. fella used to be in black eyes. black eyes had two albums on dischord. cough, the final one after splitting, is arguably easily the highpoint of their noughties releases. and i think the last one i bought. it was a furious concoction of post-hardcore dub and free jazz. there’s a movingpicturebox below…
well this is his first alone under the sex worker pseudonym. it is essentially a punk or folk protest album, an angry ethical agenda disguised in the usual nnf fashion by great gurgling moans of synth schmears. like if ducktails grew up under harsh neon flicker and dirty needles and the grim (un)reality of the flesh trade. like if someone took esg apart and rebuilt the monster using ancient casio presets.
where the usual schitck from the label is to open yr mind, empty yr mind, let yr mind wander wherever the fuck it likes this, i suppose, is an attempt (and a succesful one) to focus it somewhere. still a hypnotic transcendental ooze of zonked musik but with, you know, some form of sociological subtext burbling ‘neath its pleasingly noisy surface. do you take what you want from life? are the lives of others lives for you to take?
so three long tracks (linearly…) and a narrative of sorts i suspect:
ptsd. post traumatic stress disorder one assumes. kindof an unsettling disorientating twelve minute pulse and feedbacking skree that builds into some vicious psyche noise. it’s a coming to a head, boiling over, freakfreakfreaking out shriek of righteous fucking anger. all manner of cut-up treated howls and yowls and screamerry and phonetic ravings. at times subtle, at times horrifying. as i guess it’s meant to be. fade out.
fade in to:
without you (couldn’t be alone). almost minimalist techno. almost dub echoes. vanishing point long distance moans and wails of uncorporeal looped and looped and looped. a voice damaged and wordless ghosts in and out of the kraut beat and clamour. can’t tell if the title’s supposed to be quietly threateningly or hopelessly in love. probably a bleak both.
cut to:
no more. a warning. a plea. a statement. reminds me of some odd random from one of the sublime frequencies pop sounds records. strange and alien and foreign sounding. but at least some melodic light at the end of the tunnel. plastic drum fx and hazy undercurrents of noises, chiming, bloops and a beat that’s barely there. could almost be ambient. could almost be trance. it’s the almost bleeding dawn part to the preceding dark drift.
for thirty minutes he brings the emotion, intensity and personal bent of his previous work into new musical zones. whereas black eyes tended to explode, this tends to suffocate. as punk cathartic as it is hypnagogically blighted. terribly beautiful.
