
Straight from the fringes of the New Zealand free noise/drone/freak scene comes this baby - and boy it’s gleaming in introspective wonder... every listen unlocking new perspectives, embellishing first impressions...
For track one
footsteps the stairwell is haunted, the graffiti floating on a spaghetti western swell. A shadowy
Dot Cotton sucks on a cigarette, her paper thin cheeks showing too much skeleton , the issued smoke curling like the spasms of mummified cats. Below you can hear the slow transit of metal callipers dragging on concrete.
Celestial Vengeance is a multicoloured echo tumble… a washing line of incident feed into a buckling sausage machine. New shapes fly before the ears, chaos wrapped - collapsing sax apparitions, brief guitar plumbs, dismembered piano(?) … drum fuck-ups that would make Alex Neilson proud, full of drumstick smears and galloping muffles interspersed with karmic pixie dust... the spectre of a sax slumps over the landscape, the drums run from under its ominous gloom. Later, the sticks play voodoo dolly with the squeal, as it belches its last, stumbling out concussed into a static tide, full of Guernica edges.
Sumatra I is all haunted music box tingle, becoming all prismic, soaked in a prevailing otherness that creeps under your consciousness in a very bad way… Songs for a forgotten deity that’s back for revenge...
Glass Tapu is a sucked woodwind interlude marred in feedback scraping, like blowtorch winds scouring the inside of a grain silo, aglow with the vibrations of rivets.
Four#g - crippled Satie keys, multiple images of sound trickling through your ears, a glinting carousel of cold mirrors and stained glass shivers that letterpress themselves into memory.
Sumatra II – is an eerie lighted finger drone, breaking over the outlines of floating chairs. Itchy graphite edges licking the periphery as faces slowly fall out of focus. A birdcage spiral of twitching blurs trapped in the dusty miasma of doors endlessly closing to a muted classical refine, I swear I can hear glimpses of moan and gasp in there...
Salem’s Loft is the sound of desolation, as ghostly echoes call from room corners, sax vapours mingle , the dolphonic shrieks stretching like a latex skirt over silky pinions... stifled percussion erupts as chloroseptic spray snakes over bare bones...
Untitled, the screeching of brakes in differing tones like multi-stranded scream, bleeding out like the spokes of some semi-transparent umbrella...
Plane of Martyrs a giddy map of shifting radio interference, mixed with motor etched tin, and sander graze n grind – all hyperactive and twitching... totally wired Borneo death pipes gouging away at your inner ear...
what a finish!
available from
LF Records.