it comes spilling out of speakers, marbles rattling down stairwells. haze and pulse from the sodium-lit dark. trying to cut myself off from thee disrhythmia of it all. to wallow in the granular murk. it’s proving somewhat fractious. pesky beta waves align. brain scrape triggers ambiguous nerve responses, fingers spasm and legs twitch to swelling throbs and gobs of loping grind.
built with things wired into things wired into things. undulating electricks, spiralling coaxial phantoms, foosty haunted techno. not not harsh, just not harsh like whitehouse. harsh like liminal throbbing gristle era’s. not not clean, just not the scalpel steel of surgeon. clean like the occasional wild squiggles of underworld.
sooo… a pseudonymous battlepack of tape-recorded analoguerry from nochexxx and ekoplekz. wild overlaps here. on first listen you’d assume it was a collaboration not a split. a venn diagram radiophonics/industrial/bass interstitiality. but no, one tape each. both wandering ever so slightly away from their usual strammash.
nochexxx (chxfx) kicks things off with ecocide, an homonculous lolloping amphetamine waltz pitched somewhere between a basement-tapes suicide and fluke, gauzed in fuckknowswhattery. kinda knocks you off balance as the track and the rest of the tape(s) unravel. there’s a quiet hysteria at play, feels like the noise is gonna bend and buckle and collapse in on itself. destructively kaleidoscopic. shards, fractals, bouncing off each other: john chantler-esque arpegs, gulping calliopes of glassy tones, that throbbing gristle queasy wooze of brass, bursts of textures (metal, water (hell, there’s nods to dolphins into the future), air). part factory, part fairground. a vipco score buried and decomposing. all underpinned by delia derbyshire and this faltering flickering warm machine ambience, eno’s music for scrapyards.
and from (clumsy transition ahoy…) exoferric’s rusting metal to the shinier anime-referencing robotica of latent acid (a house / lysergia p-orridge?). ekoplekz (plkzfx) has gone in the other direction. instead of scuffing up, he’s polished. comparatively. broke dub for clubfooted dancing. all ramshackled wombstate whumps, all hazy motorik, jagged swagger and philip k. dick narcotic. the far reaches of postpunk, where jamaica and germany mechanically frotted. teutonic spectres dripdripdripping engine grease. unsettling lumps of deutsch amerikanische freundschaft industrial junk clatter. valve. hiss. steam. klank. but wrestled into step, trying by god to form a beat. manskin peeled bloodily back and there’s tetsuo’s steel arm, pistons shrieking syncopatedly at yr eyeballs. it ends, kinda back where it all started, north super jam ii, like sigue sigue sputnik, roboskeletal, taken apart with claw hammers, left to rust in the rain.
guess what i’m diggin most is the ambivalence on display. of not finding the right pieces but y’know the joyful pollock-scatter of fuck it nothing need fit. mixing inchoate to coherency; willfully unwilling; playfully serious. the reminder that thing’s once shattered can be glued back any way you see fit.