mud city all-star collab from underground legend Sharkula and Hausu co-founder Max Allison. truly a mythical figure in Chi-town, Sharkula made his name heavy grinding, selling CDs and posting flyers, built from the street up. Mukqs met him at a local Burger King and told him he was gonna make him some beats, proceeded to live construct some chaos production with synths, drum machines, looper, and sampler, complete with 16-bar intros, verses, and chorus for Sharkula to lay out his free-association word pasta. there’s an infectious familiarity to Sharkula’s verses, an unabashed originality, like he’s just having a conversation with the listener, or with Mukq’s noise-infected video-game techno beats. crumbling alien urban soundscapes
hypnotic meditations from this bass / drums DC duo of Luke Stewart and Warren G “Trae” Crudup III. exploration of space and sound and all the cracks in between. an afro-futurism rooted in the ancients.
No wave noise punk patricidal destruction (and not in the father sense, more the white male patriarchy sense). do I still got you? live recordings from this aggressively anti-racist group of black queer women from around the LA area. insurrectionary calls to action for everyone that’s ever been pissed off at things like systemic racism, patriarchy, and exploitation economics. this definitely feels like some pro-looting music, and in the best way. if this offends you, then take a good long look at yourself, this is definitely confrontational so leave your fragile white feelings at the door. but seriously, challenge yourself, lean into it, its supposed to be uncomfortable. FCC on 1,3,4,7,9 and… is Nappy Black Pussy an FCC violation? cuz it shouldn’t be. the title seems to be a reference to reparations, a controversial subject amongst white folks for sure, and whether it takes the form of giving your black friend $10, eating out at black-owned restaurants, or encouraging white people to donate to black-led organizations, there’s always going to be naysayers (except maybe Naysayer?)
damn, you know im gonna dig it when they kick off the album w/ an ELO sample (Tbag, Minor..?) Experimental hip-hop / trap-soul / etc from Seattle originally from California. this falls under the “cloud rap” genre umbrella that fits so well in the PNW – woozy, dizzy, spellbinding. she tags grunge and I don’t think that’s just a geographical coincidence; there’s this raw, unfiltered delivery, she brings all of herself to this and lays it all out there, naked for all to see (not just a reference to the album cover). this is personal, this is real, plain-spoken and direct. she was 24 when she released this and she keeps producing forward thinking, genre bending music. keep an eye out, she’s gonna fly past us if she hasn’t already.
machine girl seems to be the moniker for a matt stephenson out of NYC aka Artie’s Kryptonite aka some seriously chaotic pixified millennial dance music. idk if theys a gemini for sure but speaking as one, it sure sounds it: vaporwave? who tf knows, but there sure is some labile attention shifting genre mashup: energetic breakcore, bright bodied trance, some juke and footwork tweaks and twerks, all constantly zone switching then dropping back into vibe. i feel like im missing out on something listening to this digitally, this has a serious mixtape feel and the aesthetic lends well to lofi textures, but alas all the tapes seem to sell out, even this re-release. late spring grooves right in time for this sun’s season.
new release of psy skronk din spiritualism from this revolving door collective of jazz deconstructionists hailing across the wasteland of middle america. alternate zoning from one psychic plain to the next tracking rapidly across two expansive tape sides; feels like a DMT dissociation with the amount of space travel power packed into so little time. the whole trip flows like orchestral movements, and the attendance is there, with the density of players producing such cohesive sound. equal parts harsh and ethereal, jazz and psychedelic, there’s something for everyone here so tune in and drop out
timely narrative of pathogenic spread from American trio Andrew Wilmer, Frank Cordry, Jack Scanlan for Portuguese label under Nekrogoat Heresy. static shock blankets of power electronx: starting off with a doom laden invocation worthy of Thothian imposition, the EP moves through various textures of feedback flatulence, boil, and squeal; screaming gateplay and prickly buzzcut frustrations vented through all layers of serrated fuzz edginess. play loud
homage to the gueetar in all its gloree, an Americana that’s more postmodern in its primitive I think. short, accessible blurps celebrating the six string in all sorts of styles. what starts off as some plucking pleasantries gets thrown in the deep end of all sorts of experimental weirdnesses: psychedelic folk noise, trip ambient, stoner drone.. plenty of heavy hitters in here and too many familiar faces to even begin to name but I will anyways: a few of my favorites are the zone switch slap in the face by Bill Nace, Daniel Bachman’s surprisingly regal yet ethereal meditation, former Bardo Ponds Curanderos channeling some sort of alternate history, James Plotkin really knows how to mix a collage (and mastered this here comp of course too), sparse melodies throughout this compilation but really shine stark on Michael Morley, Wendy Eisenberg may just be the best new reinterpretations of the blues I’ve heard.. I’d say this is about a third just guitar tracks and the rest range in all different approaches so try one out, there’s definitely something here to suit everyone. oh yeah and check out the liner notes by John Olson on this one, I’m sure he’s got something interesting to say about it.
2004 release from American harsh noise veterans, Richard Ramirez and Skin Crime join for this unholy slab of feedback worship composed of SC source material processed by Dick. thick, acerbic but sterile gray, not so much walls as shattered chalkboard skidding over flayed concrete. smells like the disinfectant coated linoleum surfaces, barely erasing the death and dismay seeped into the surface. empty lullabies to a barren room, you keep grasping at the surface, trying to wake for just a few last words but there’s nothing left to hold onto, you choke on sleep as they die laughing. a void so heavy it makes you want to squirm and weep. unavoidably, most lifeless desperation
another artifact of otherworldly trance psychedelia unearthed from the Lost Discoveries Exotic Music Shop. I’m pretty sure this label is run by Grant Corum himself, (maybe?) associated with the Psychic Sounds label listed outta Maine (maybe), but honestly out of the wealth of information online I can discern very little as far as solid info, elusive is an understatement, as concerns the sounds as well for that matter, like some kind of subconscious alternate mind-fuck.
abridged CDr sampler of a massive DVDr data disc release remixing rehashing reconstructing Arvo Zylo’s seminal 333 release. trip mental industrial of the chaotic crunchy variety, plodding soundscrapes of rhythm and noise, concrete crushing beats cracked around the edges. some of the tracks get in to more cut-up, concrete, or ambient even, spiced up with some jazz skronk? this comps got it all, true QUALITY noise stuff compiled by the connoisseur himself. released here on Arvo’s own No Part of It label; if you get a chance, dig up the bandcamp to sample the full release, especially for the complete 35minute Blood Rhythms piece. and if you’re not afraid of long tracks for that matter dig up 333 from our very own library here and maybe do some side by side. the beautiful thing about good comps is I honestly believe there’s something everyone can get down on here, this is the kinda noise that converts folks.
yet another botch trashpile from Swedish edgelordz Brainbombs (named after a Punishment of Luxury song if you care to look), this 2008 LP comes over 20 years from their exit of the womb and they’ve hated women ever since apparently. ripe with misogyny at every track, full of rape, torture, murder; they’re heavily influenced by Peter Sotos if that means something to you. sloppy detuned repetitive noiserock to leave you numb in the lips, the grime makes you want to grimace and the horns just sprinkle a bit of class on the excrement. like I said, all the tracks are pretty dirty: 2,3,5 are technically obscene what with the masturbation and peeing and stuff but technically 2 don’t got no naughty words and 5 you can’t understand a thing anyways so do with that what you will. 6 is the only really clean track on here despite depicting a pretty gruesome murder scene (but hey at least they murdered a guy this time). if the trigger warnings don’t make your belly boil maybe this is for you (hell, maybe it makes your loins tingle, ya’ll a bunch of deranged sickos anywho)
free and expressive rock more than anything, heavy on both on creative on sonic levels, this seattle jazz improv power trio rips throughout. wally is the ultimate party man, rip roaring with jazz heads for decades, bill’s precise preparations and explorations redefine what guitars are meant to do, and kikuchi flows freely within the intuitive improv these heads carry (and with a wealth of technical and extended techniques to boot). the album title basically lays it out for you, cuz i guess sound is psychoactive on a chemical level or something?
aka the noise band from Bletchley, UK trance punks? or maybe the call to action undoing the trance? that minimalist repetition of grit and discontent definitely induces reflection, as do the relentlessly nihilistic poems ranting militant contentment to extinction. this is the first album they did with GW Sok, former frontman of The Ex, and i definitely feel the political connection. the somewhat title track seems to give a fishbowl narration of our modern end times and with the meticulous carelessness of their musical delivery you can’t help but feel fine, cuz the world is fucked anyway. pity this busy monster, manunkind, not. Progress is a comfortable disease (ee cummings)
abacus 7/18/2018 A Library
split pairing of Andrew Quitter on anxiety electronics and Egan Budd on metal/junk percussion; its all just a bunch of noise tbh, compositions of cinematic destruction, confrontational yet distant; transdimensional death industrial gutting up against cavernous tonal primitivism. like getting sucked thru a black hole and landing in a boneyard of crumbling architecture. Andrew brings more bleep bloop space travel sounds (especially on Devil’s Icebox, despite the subterranean field recordings) while Egan feels grittier, raw (except Mineral Resurrection gets pretty synthy and Coffin Dust is raw af). if the heat gets any more oppressive this will sit nicely otherwise these are some icy fuckin sounds.
cascadian doom folk of the apocalypse, this group of ladies from Olympia perform acoustically and by candelabra because when the end comes there will be no electricity. somber, sparse yet uplifting in the most dismal of outcomes, vradiazei literally translates from Greek to “getting night” or “darkness comes” they lost their banjo/bouzouki player to motherhood, life eats away at us all one by one. vocals on the B side
cuddly duo of freak folks out of Seattle on an assortment of broken instruments and looping droning and buzzing electronics; extended noise mantras unfold into underwater exotica grooves, squishy rhythms and tribal play toy pandemonium warbled echoes of social ineptitude take form in feral whelps, growls and howls; some cluttered garage hang out ayahuasca hazing
black metal split from the Seattle area: Drakul unleashes relentless death infected blasts of grime and decrepitude; obsessions include the occult, psychopathology and necrophilia so you know its tasty. Sermons On a Moonless Night is like a depressive vampire porno, distant fog laden blood rituals with garbled goblin vocals, hog growls, and digital blastbeats for your amphetamine fueled late night suicidal meme quests
sparse guitar folk narratives from Seattle’s Jesy Fortino; recordings from an era ago, recorded at the Josephine; gentle yet haunting plunges into the weight of a heavy spirit; her voice is rustic yet somber, a real heartbreaker, evocative; live performance so the songs track together, just play them all and weep.
12345 S. El Monte Road Los Altos Hills, California 94022
Public Inspection File