DEDICATED TO ALL THE LONERS. NOT A PROMOTION OF SUICIDE AS AN ANSWER. BUT A STATEMENT AGAINST THE SOCIETY THAT CREATES THE ENVIRONMENT OF CONSTANT DEPRESSION AND LIFE-DESTRUCTION. FOR THOSE WHO HAVE NEVER FOUND THEIR PLACE ADJUSTING TO SOCIETY.
free drum stuttering guitar plucks in the distant back alleys of abandoned space colonies – alien creatures grumbling encrypted signals of distant horror and creeping subtleties. ancient spirits forgotten amidst the ominous alarm crunch shrill in the ether. no semblance to reality whatsoever.
duo of Posh Isolationists execute industrial drone electronics with a still harshness that only northern europeans can truly capture. from Denmark, a blanket of cold penetrated by carefully calculated screeching highs with a clean malice of forethought PRESENTATION IS EVERYTHING crafted with crisp sterile production, naked vocal declarations hidden on the non-Interiors and subtle creeping percussion TIMING IS EVERYTHING noise for the dancefloor with surgical precision and muted aggression
new ep from self-proclaimed Houston’s Most Hated – Cop Warmth return with their low-down-dirty-trash-punk-noise-rock. unrelenting riffage with more guitars (or guts) than you can fit in any college dorm room; thick viscous sound recorded like shit just like it deserves (maybe an FCC on B1 but the vocals are all mush anyways). Trash Gods might be a bit ambitious but trash kings I’ll give em. it’s a wonder In the Red picked up on them at all…
collaboration between analog masters utilizing synths and tapes to create frail fragments of desolate ambience. muffled phasing pulsations creep and build in urgency, a turgid alarm buzz of tone deaf drones dominate the B side leading into a beat-driven tech pulse of distorted fidelity. the A side-long crumbles into decayed tape filth, loops and warped voices subside to hazy serenity. the alien title track closes with pitch warp lullaby mantra settling into unsettling dreams. released on Lescalleet’s own Glistening Examples though lacking in any glisten, sounding more of a smudged grease spot.
bleak electronic blankets of undulating nullity with nonconsensual superimpositions of fascist fetishism and serial killer nostalgia. early material originally released under William Bennett’s Come Organisaion as Leibstandarte SS MB.
folk punk devotionals from these california suburbanites. homegrown instrumentation: gathering together the instruments their parents bought them when they were 12 years old that they never quite learned to play to sing songs about modern society’s highs and woes: online media apathy and self-medicating social alienation. garage band in the literal sense with friendly songs your kid neighbor plays on weekends. despite the swearing they’re really nice boys.
making waves in the D.C. underground, hard-hitting trio Diamond District reviving golden era sounds with fresh styling. X.O, yU and Oddisee bringin soulful sampling production, gritty drums and grimy raps; filthy enough to come from the streets but conscious enough to provoke thought; sophisticated lyrical content on politics, culture and philosophy without being overly intellectual and verbose, more emphasis placed on complex wordplay and rhythmic interaction. worthy of the fame they’re on the cusp of with an almost-grammy-nomination back in ’09, but they don’t let the attention get to them, yet.
by way of German label, Appalachian folk music from Andy McLeod: seasonal farm hand, musician and visual artist. inspired by Jack Rose, John Fahey and others, and especially by his home landscape of Chester County, Pennsylvania, these warm fingerpicked melodies (guitar/banjo) are all original (except for one Carter Family tune – with vocals) and incorporate field recordings (3-5), spoken word (4) and drone (6,7,10). the tracks get more spacious as the album progresses, with the brief Lost track at the end losing all trace of country for foggy introspection. collaborations from friends and an homage to the late Robbie Basho, this beautiful album can find its way onto any show, and deserves just that.
Night People person Shawn Reid doesn’t stray far from his Raccoo-oo-oon roots; psychedelic ritualism with freak flag flying. the procession begins as planned but dives off the deep end of depravity as the night wears thick, tribalistic impulses taking over in closely contained fits of feral primitivism. distorted warcries of angst and alienation set against casio glimmer and primal percussion, drones permeating. debut(?) from earlier years of the label with plenty of momentum carrying forward.
dankcore finest from Stinkweed fresh out of prison. san jose eastside hick metal hip hop crossover. beer belly thrash with a sense of humor, cuz fuck if i care anyways
ancient tribal mysticism from faceless texan vagabonds. murky pagan rituals of minimalist rhythms and distant lo-fi harmonies, more creepy than calming. spiritual ruins
hate crime manifestations from this San Jose powerelectronics duo. piercing squall of churning harsh feedback, the title track layered pandemonium while the untitled track is more of a calculated attack. what terror humanity is capable of
expert aural assassin of the NY DIY, weapon of choice 4-string banjo and the choicest of unsuspecting killers. lethal injections of looping finger-fucked melodies on hyper speed; rapid fire tremolo assaults into shredding drones with 12-string backing and drum machine punctuation. you will die screaming.
stab yourself in the face and hang from the rafters you godless music pussy. brutal grind from Victoria, B.C. tied up in the closet puking blood.
perhaps an unlikely pick for Seattle’s Iron Lung label, not manic hardcore thrash or noisy sludge laden, but San Francisco’s Flesh World lack not the viciousness of other bands on the roster: rough post-punk riffage with lingering feedback and urgent spiking rhythms. an ominous, almost gothic death rock feel. excellent echoing production. dismal indeed
Colorado druids ritualizing the primordial. blackened doom charred by the smoke of progress, haunted by generations of exploitation and revived through earth’s resiliency. classical harmonies interwoven in the despair. a triumph of the elements
12345 S. El Monte Road Los Altos Hills, California 94022
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