Reissue of a particularly notorious cassette compilation on Dylan Nyoukis’s Chocolate Monk label compiled by Rudolf Eb.Er of avantists/surrealist/actionist unit Runzelstirn & Gurgelstock and featuring a bunch of related bent/splat snippets from Runzelstirn & Gurgelstock, Sudden Infant, D. Phillips, Fear Of God, Wash Your Brain, “the most horrible Swiss metal” and more.

Raucous post-Harry Pussy/Sun City Girls/US Saucer hillbilly rock that at points sounds like a fleet of broken down lawnmowers grinding nuts the size of planets. Plenty of vocal whoop, warped analog electronics, half-heard song-spectres and deformed found-sound cut-ups. Features Anne Eickelberg of Thinking Fellers Union Local 282 along with Rich Wells and Scott. Geez.

Solo vocal/tape/electronic meditation on personal space invasion and psychedelic applications of hyper-ventilation from Chris Habib, film-maker (he shot the No Fun DVD) and Sonic Youth associate.

Brand new issue of a particularly molten session from Rie Lambdoll and Mayuko, a female noise duo from Osaka, Japan. This one matches the eternal gush of the most sensual psychedelic drone with spurts of blinding electronic blurt. Or as they put it themselves: “We direct to fault of the cloudy society, listen to life’s scream, catch the feels from bottom of our soul, and make ‘em beautiful sounds. We active as crossbred for everything...” You said it, sister.

Brand new solo noise/trance from Mr Pete Nolan of Magik Markers/Spectre Folk/Virgin Eye Blood Brothers/Wooden Wand & The Vanishing Voice/GHQ/Cops et al. First track is a knotty electro drill that works the same shadowy brain areas previously puttied by the opening bee-stings of Richard Youngs’s “Alban Stands Here”. Second track – “Winger (For Guitar Dreams And Hair Never Dies)” – is sick raga/metal primitive, mapping the common ground between Tony Iommi’s endless hammer-ons and Terry Riley’s non-stop brain flashers. The rest of the disc gets even more slow-mo and gloopier, till it feels like wading through treacle with an alien antenna wedged deep in your skull. Either way, Nolan makes it happen. Suitably gross cover-art too.

Long demanded re-issue of this flattening international head-to-head featuring two of the messiest actionists ever to force their fingers down their own throats. Homemade tape/electronic murk that sounds like a rush of rusty blood. Recommended.

Live archival find, newly released on Chocolate Monk, from the duo of Neil Campbell and John Clyde-Evans (now Tirath Singh Nirmala). An atmospheric punk-primitive ritual with slow flashing beams of cello and violin ala early Theatre Of Eternal Music boots combining in charcoal clusters of electric DNA. Campbell on cello and tapes, Clyde-Evans on violin, tape and voice. Features the ghost presence of Sticky Foster and art by Karen Constance.

Brand new big-band line-up release from Blood Stereo, recorded live in Leeds in April 2005. The duo of Dylan Nyoukis and Karen Constance are joined by Julian Bradley, Neil Campbell and Sticky Foster for an Ur-primitive UK underground freak-out that jams signals with electro-flesh conceptions that are as occult as Heathen Erath-era Throbbing Gristle and as ecstatically damaged as anything from the tongue of yr favourite dope-dosing guru. A whole mess of smeared vocals, slow helium of electronics, loops, reeds and - crucially - plenty of doof. Killer.

Brand new solo album from Greg Kelley of Boston duo Nmperign. Massively downer atmosphere with obsessive/intimate diaristic dialogue, totally blasted drone vacuums, distant sound events and a slow blur of heavily sedated instrumental activity. "Another exercise in failure. Spring 2003: With assistance from Vic Rawlings, I fill my room at Club Awesome in Somerville MA w/ electric keyboards, synth, a small organ and set them all for drone. A radio plays static. Record to MD, output MD through my stereo for low feedback. An electric fan is aimed at the microphone for the distorted vintage 78 effect (rpm, not the year). Vic bowed a single cello note at some point and a cymbal was scraped. The intent: record in mono for 2 hours, communicate with the dead. After 1 hour, I couldn't take it any more. My intended "Two hours as..." is now "One hour as..." I fussed over it for a while. It's kind of boring. I like boring, but... Late Winter 2004: I must do something with this recording. I decide to look backwards into the archives... January 8, 2000: I send out a call to arms: Meet me at Twisted Village Records, Cambridge MA at 8pm. It's Scelsi's birthday and we will play a memorial drone for him. The call was met by Oliver Alden, Mike Bullock, James Baumgartner, Seth Cluett, James Coleman, David Dougan, David Gross, Tatsuya Nakatani, Howard Stelzer, Bhob Rainey, Vic Rawlings. Some automatic instruments played themselves. Others may have been there, but I don't remember. And you can't really hear them anyway. Back to Late Winter 2004: I record a new track onto my 4 track in my bedroom in Allston MA. Trumpet and radio static. (DJ Screw's ghost inhabited my 4 track near the end of this track.) Then I record a burning guitar solo for the end of my new and improved "One hour as..." The mono drone, the Scelsi tribute band, the trumpet/radio track and the HOTT guitar track are all mixed down from 4 track to MD under the influence of Samuel Smith Oatmeal Stout. A vocal intro and headphone feedback interruptions are then added. The task is complete. It's a bloodbath. What have I done?" - Greg Kelley.

Necessary document of Dylan Nyoukis’s recent tape/sound poetry innovations, with punk epiglottal torture and clots of vocal vibration channelled into sick loops of phlegm, text and tourettes. Singular work that should appeal to fans of Junko, Chopin and Dilloway. First track recorded live at The Engine Room, Brighton (first ever solo gig) March 4th 2006 with two microphones and two reel-to-reels. Second piece for voice, reel-to-reel and oscillator. One dead-tone interlude.

Black pro-Satan tongue poetry and electronics from this NY-based duo that features Jaime Fennelly and Fritz Welch of east coast free/improv casualties PSI/Pee-ess-eye. If you dig the more oracular/Sun City Girls/avant inspired moves of that ensemble then camp the fuck down.

One track each from Courtis of Reynols and Nyoukis of Blood Stereo/Decaer Pinga et al coupled with a live duo bomb hitting the red in Brighton, July 16th 2006. Courtis track is all slowed-down barbiturate piano/guitar sonority clank while Nyoukis presents "Spiritual Mould", a minimal piece for single suspended tones that sounds like a symphony for telephone exchange tones and melting circuit boards. Live set is more Neanderthal piano/chains/vox improv clank.

“Global navigation satellite sytsems have made the old surveying process of triangulation unnecessary. That is to say, when you want to make a map these days, you just take a big cosmic snapshot & draw it. Guess it beats working out your scale of reference from a few points on the ground with some string & pencils. However, these two polite, mannered gentlemen are old fashioned. And old fashioned is the kind of guys the world needs, because they're the kind you would let babysit your kids. So instead of downloading the Buddha app to a fucking iphone, the pair go Euclidean by laying down lines across each other's playing, quietly looking for fixed angles. Little bubbles & abrasions from Wooley's trumpet mouthpiece. Planes of wavering tone from Forsyth's guitar. Live at Zorn's club in NYC.” - Angela Sawyer.

“Kouns is a delerious spirit, from pig iron country, OH, USA. He grabbed my lapels once, wild-eyed. All wine reek and holy smoke, just started yelling at me “I got something for you, brotherman, Its a 40 minute modern liturgical, transcendental death jazz composition.” uh-huh.. “It compares the insects process too mankinds development, dig?.” ummm.. “I Think a wiry cat like you might just beable to handle the juices.” O..K... He proceeded to press a master tape into my trembling mit. And so here it is, one mans vision.” – Dylan Nyoukis.

“Think you like poetry, asshole? You've probably never even met the fellow. But this guy has. Even if he is a sloppy painter. And one from that capital of self-shitters, Brooklyn. Yes he has. Been there, that is. And like that poor Greek SOB who died bringing the news of the Athenian victory, the guy's run all the way back here to the land of the living from a zone of arrows and corpses. And he brings you back a session that's epic in the literary sense. Yelling, screaming, ranting, and even some shrieking. Not much else either, save a couple of stray electronic buzzes from the mike. Recorded at a Chinatown hipster bar in front of a few close friends, who were probably shitfaced. In fact, what was Clint Simonson doing there amidst the defeated Persians, bearded fools & fish sauce? Your call, but I say he was on his knees catching the flying spittle in a little cup.” - Angela Sawyer.

“Following CDRs and cassettes for Smokers Gifts and Kovorox Sound, and a track on an Idwal Fisher comp, Melanie Delaney gulps down some fermented plantain extract, squares her shoulders, embarks on another  temporary exile from Ashtray Navigations, and takes her rightful place atop the Chocolate Monk bully pulpit. The musical spastasms of her solo project Ocelocelot goink in tandem with Jovial Bowel Syndrome, that Midlands medical condish afflicting those with diets high in pig’s milk and sausage muke. Ring modulator abounds on the CD, attaching itself to every decibel like a Louisiana eyeworm, leaving pockmarks across landscapes defined by cornball menses tutorials and cloudy waters from the snout of the matriarch. Delaney charms plasmagnetics and electrosputum with the deftness of the Janitorial Custodians of Jajouka. As Ocelocelot splays her space nuptials across a skyline smeared with mushy peas, and junked Vespas limp across the tarmac at Dragonfly refueling stations, orphans gaze away from the mysterious metal chambers it is their duty to scrub with steel wool. Gawk, urchins.” - S.Glass

“More voltaic drip from the minefield of a mind of Stella. Two of the tracks here originally appeared on a super limited cassette on the Nazot label (hence the title here), but you probably missed that in your somnolence. Plus we get an extra 25 minute track,, thats over 77 minutes of zonked out sci-fi damage. A nausea inducing ride, seas on saturn style, using the same demented tape technique as on the /Foucault Zombie/ sessions.” – Dylan Nyoukis.

“The Gas Shepherds are dead, found throttled in some midlands bog, an emacipated mess. But weep not, be brave, for from the ashes comes the suitably psych-damaged UFO Antler Band. In the red keyboards and vocal murk that reminds me of early A-Band sputter are led a stumbling by the tremelo shiver of a cavemans hand unveiling the gauzy guitar sound of that 'up all night revelation' feeling. All, eh, 'produced' with more hiss than a bag of snakes. I can almost hear De Waards wiseman contempt. But we don't need none of that shit round this hole in the ground, right?” – Dylan Nyoukis.

“This is artist formerly known as Charles/Charred Balls. As you would expect from a Gastric Female Reflex refugee, this thing is all over the place -subdued tape collage, opiate flavoured 'songs', the amazing stuttering hands of a sauced up organist, it's all here bubbling along in one big baffling stew. Hell, it could easily be some grubby outtakes from a Puzzle Punks session. Actually it reminds me of something Charlie Ward (Stomach Ache CEO) would have once slurped on, now wheres my spoon?” – Dylan Nyoukis.

Environmental sound, dogs barking, harsh noise, spliced tape compositions and classic audio surrealism with a cracked Euro madman edge: “So you were too gassed and passed on his “Murder At Maybeck Manor” disk on Dolor Del Estamago (Stomach Ache)? That don't surprise me one jot, so we are giving you a chance of sweet intoxicating redemption. Bite the hand, bozo. Jorge Boehringer was once some yankee man about town on the Left Coast, but he made haste and headed east and now resides in the Czech Republic, where he spends his nights handing out confusion orders to the aural senses of the locals. Even the most orthodox bubbleheads praise his soothing balm for bandaged brains. Pragues famous automated pickle jars vibrate to the heavy viola and electronic sounds of this fruity lugnut. He turns the snot smeared sky red. Feel his algebra chafe your mind.” – Dylan Nyoukis.

“DRAHIEM: MONSTER OF THE MIDWEST:Things ive seen Charlie do live: +Play in a dress and record 90 sec loops over and over of vomiting due to a weekend diet of pretzel sticks dipped in premium gasoline (when it was stupid expensive, like you know, three years ago)  +Take on a whole fleet of Michigan Militia dudes at a small bar in Gaylord Michigan for thinking his Manifesto was some Pro-government tome  +Give blood only to have it returned a month later due to "pure red-cell inactivity"  +Throw a half full bottle of After the Hunt High Life at a cop only to realize he owed said cop a master tape going on three years now.  So here is a Chocolate Monk Drahiem experience? As i write this in a dreary Albany Comfort Inn at dusk and hear these horrible sounds = I dont wanna move or open the blinds (mainly cause me & the princess are comatose from parent paid el-massive late lunch at the Cheesecake Factory) cause the soundtrick from this CD makes me think if i open the door to room 216 upper floor we will be launched into a world full of terrible static insects buzzing around scraping wings on salt-dried frozen concrete waiting to lure every ear into a pool of electro-muge. No way hose'. We gotta pool date with Tovah 's sister and her husband to be in an hour and no way if some CD sound is funna gonna stop that swim double date. So until that time comes, we are locked in room 216, waiting. But its like Charlie D is here with us, the determined master fried-mind of electronic frustration, putting his camo boots on to the march of slimes on his own time. He is to Michigan what Clifford Brown was to Max Roach = i guess!  This here CD by CD on CM willR.ock R.ipp and R.oll Y.r W.orld, Who else can be labelmates with the almighty Piss in My Face With Surgery? Slam this silver-recorded-silver bottom recordable cd into yr monster truck, roll over to Corner Brewery, Dour and Drahiem will be there sitting in the corner, most likely in silence, but a MASSIVE WEIRDO SOUND ABSTRACTION  party awaits, soon.” - John Olson

“Some archival recordings from this annoyingly reclusive duo from Edinburgh. You may well know Rhian (aka CKDH) from doing time in Giant Tank, jamming with Kuupuu, looking fierce in The Barbarians, and she was recently seen performing as part of Smegma at the Smell in LA. Dora Doll was a founding numbnut of Prick Decay/Decaer Pinga, has performed in Smell & Quim and terrorized many a young man at 'noise' shows in her time. “Spirit & Spector” is a miasma of electrical smoke, the sound of wheezing subterranean light bulbs & a bucket load of mechanical schlub worms all wrapped up in the collapsing essence of muscled women. It all sounds broken to me, but hey you don't need no opulence, pauper.” – Dylan Nyoukis.

“Noise cutups by nameless & mute Scumbag Tapes guy, who year after year turns up people, references & objects that no one's ever heard of and then leaves them around the postal system like wreckage. I picture a mincing little oily-haired troll whose fingernails are way too long. He scuttles & picks over the wetlands of Minneapolis. Old tin cans are turned over to reveal forgotten tv & movie samples, which he speeds up, slows down & embalms with bedroom electronics & guitar skritch. Fractured farts, chickens getting strangled, his own pussface and ingrown toes. Guy doesn't make any typical moves, which is great, but the down side is that this will give you his pimples if you touch it.” - Angela Sawyer, Weirdo Records

“Like a glassy larval eel sliding out of the Bay Area comes the garbled tape mangler Loachfillet, master of memory evaporation, woozy electronics & heavy thought digestion. This one time member of Pod Blotz, Diatric Puds & The Blobbettes, Mummers (Etpe) and Pigs In The Ground now blasts out beyond crude deflation techniques into giddy tonal flow, rebirthing musique snobbery onto a grimy cave floor. This disk will leave all you dweebs weeping like salesmen at an earlobe seminar. Starts off on a west coast wild weirdy vibe then ends on a tribes folk suspended above the listener in aquatic globs of transparent jelly style. A glazed eyed chicken tickler with enough avant-huff for the most adventurous listener.” – Dylan Nyoukis.

“Sentient music from Finland that both CHOCMO and UPS can agree on? Global warming wasn't a lie! AVARUS/KEMIALLISET YSTÄVÄT/MANIAC'S DREAM contributor NUSLUX wavers between sonic pools of flexion and abduction, like an EARHAND. The evolutionary gesture towards plucking the forbidden fruit is motivated by those two forces. In real life we simulate this when events move independently of others and yet the overall effect is muscular and blended, like the way one curate's their lover's skin, imbued only with the finer moments. Beyond the focal point is digression or a daze. Selected memory. Ancestrally speaking, Nuslux belongs to the Schnitzler / Plank / HNAS omnitonal synth orbit in that his format explores a sort of loony bin haunt; For the love of clown cars against backlit phosphorescent adagio and coarse wool dips. Cloistered gobs. Lonnnnng, rubbery Puer Aeternus for contemporary krautnoyze homes and gardens. But there is something in this music that begs to know what exactly is going on behind that ancient Vedic curtain; the place where we hide all of our mythologies and purple inks. WARNING: for solipsists and † self medicators † only!” - Daniel Lopatin

Excellent set of inflatable Cro-Magnon psych from these day-glo Argentinean cosmonauts: “The return of these Argentinian psych mountain mind men. Here we find them grabbing about on the dirt stage, eyes pleasantly bulged on spiked yerba mate, no doubt sipped from a skull shaped gourde. Space cave yodelling is backed up with the fungal shimmering of a guitar on its last legs & the kind of drumming that gets you kicked out of the tribe. This world below is slowly being bathed by the syrupy transmissions from their Chrome Moon studios. Watch out for flying flutes and objects, not to mention mesmerism, burbiling ritual & elementary feets. Now excuse me while i nail a toad into this beard.” – Dylan Nyoukis.

"Some sonic events do not qualify as “music” no matter how hard you shake them. That’s my feeling, anyway, and if it’s not yrs then I suggest that it will be once you’ve been subjected to the sound of this new release by Vom Grill.
The name itself is a trick, since the sounds are generated solely by the evil Belgian, Dennissssss Tyfusssssss. But naturally no one would even consider buying this things it it had Dennissssss’ name prominently attached, so they invented a fucking soubriquet for him – Vom Grill. What the fuck is that supposed to be? The name of Richard Meltzer’s new coffeeshop? Yeah, well – not hardly. This particular Vom Grill abortion is a three track plunge into all that is annoying about Belgian food. The first course is like a melange of simpering, whining children, smeared with mayonnaise, croaking that they only want a peanut. It goes on for less than five minutes, but it feels like a week. The second track is Tyfusssss’ ignorant attempt to “just take a break, people.” He tries to calm the kids down by playing xylophone notes on his own rib cage, but he’s too fucking fat to pull it off, so he whistles mock-xylo notes while the kids fiddle around with some sort of pudding make from bread crumbs and gristle. Great. The final track is the sound of Vom being submerged in a vat of Belgian ale, bobbing to the surface with all his little electric thistles spinning while he burps for help. Like he really fucking wants it. In my day if someone was heard uttering this sort of nonsense we’d shove a little broom up his and/or her ass and make him and/or her wear a rubber glove on his and/or her head. What does Nyoukis do? He actually releases the shit. These laddies richly deserve each others’ company. What the fuck did we do to rate similarly shoddy treatment? Waiter? My check." - Byron Coley

“Latest solo delve from Sarah Albury, one time lank in the tribal yawn fest Leopard Leg who found redemption through homebrew & The Polly Shang Kuan Band. Here she dollops up the goods into a acoustic fog and gets you, the listener, primed. Witness screwy lopsided keyboard & backwards jabber, steaming overdubbed throat drones, sit down wonk out, brain enema electronics and tape mumbo jumbo, basically one womans sounds of fact and fiction. Now I command you go forth and froth.”- Dylan Nyoukis. 

“We had big plans me and Ms Chen, she came armed with her beast of a cello, bows strung with the finest Lhasa Apso hair and a case full of electronics. I brought scruffy violin and box full of junk and springs, but as the night progressed something took hold of us both, and it was decided at the last moment that this should be a straight up vocal duet. Sometimes slurping and delirium can hit the spot.” – Dylan Nyoukis. 

Some weirdo magnetic tape dupster find, reassembled by Keith Fullerton Whitman into a acidfied Bruhin-esque beastly smell. “None of this gibberish, which seems to have been made mainly with half-depressed pause, fast-forward and rewind buttons (and maybe a half-depressed Albanian cobbler), have any titles, so let me suggest a few: "Butt.Er.Fl.Eyes," "Camel Nad Spit," "Looka Mi Puddy (version)," "Borg 9," "Sitting on the Harpsichord Watching all the Frogs Go By," "The Crepitation Contest (pts 7-10)," "Paddling the Dinosaur," "Stiffened Argyle Dangler," "Rooster in a Juicer," and "Syd Barrett's Series of Unfortunate Furniture Collapses." All kidding aside, I don't have the slightest idea what kind of sustained panic attack might have caused this record. Maybe it was an overdose of mint snuff and a pickled egg enema in tinkly-winkly land that leaked out this gooey crust. Your goose is as good as mine.” – Nagoski

“My good friend Ian Murphy once told me that if I wanted to rid myself of the terrible headache brought on by 'Glo-Fi Beach Boy Bellends' I needed to ingest more 'necro-acoustics', and at the time I am ashamed to say i just wrote it off as more wine fueled Guilford jaw grind, but low and behold, after spinning the new Dog Lady smut for two days straight, if i aint fucking cured of them fucking new age blues, yessir!! This disk travels some, his violin playing goes from desolate and unsettling too rabid and vacillating. All beefed out with bouts of grotified tape and electronic wheeze and pulse. All in all Dog Lady conjure up the kind of shit that reminds us our ancestors were just a bunch of hungry, sponge larvae, so swing that from your family tree, headscratcher.” – Dylan Nyoukis. 

One Track from the Kommissar, two track from Mama Baer and three tracks from Blood Stereo, thats six tracks of prime 'whodunnit'? “One for audio vérité aficionados. A three-way split that highlights different approaches to marital equilibrium, just ahead of the forthcoming Channel 4 Wife Swap programme. Mama Baer knows what's what - she's got things to do, so she sends the Kommissar down the pub with his mates. The boys get drunk, much laughter, singing and general horseplay, then back to his pal Trev's place to listen to some of his old Anal Probe compilation tapes. Mama hates all that stuff, but uses the time alone in the house to plug in her guitar and holler her own long-ass hymns to hysteria. A bit of me-time and all is rosy. Blood Stereo have a different approach to conjugals. They believe the family that plays together stays together, so they never do anything apart. I think there's some sort of digestive tract "concept" going on here. You can hear Dylan's bowels rumbling as the first part of the triptych unfolds. They need to eat. Poor old Karen - she nips out for some tofu and possible peace and quiet but Dylan follows her with his minidisk and small collection of imported bird-calls. Last part is a post-prandial take on the opener - the bowels are still very much in evidence, but this time sated. You can almost smell their tiny flat. Thank christ there are no more editions of Excreting Youth planned.” - Neil Campbell

“Scumfried jazz slop from upstate New York meets charred freak sound murk from the UK. Bolide dish out a subtle bowl fried gimprovised jam, far from a face melter, this is a slow, humid, hypnotic affair, tangled and druggy. While the Rochester octet wheeze out three syrupy big band confusers with plenty of squawk and honk supplemented with electronic sputter and distorted bass wang, not to mention some smoked out odes. Large mouths, larger meals and more unmusic for your wedge.” – Dylan Nyoukis. “NPV are totally and completely unselfconsciously strange & removed from their surroundings both sonically & mentally. Their sounds speak of bizarre & alien places your ears don't usually go.” - John Schoen, Pengo 

Archival muck documenting Fritz Welch and John Seden trying to extend the secretions. “I met John Seden at art school in Chicago in '87. We bonded instantly on weird art, The Residents, Shockabilly and Herschell Gordon Lewis films. We hung out briefly until i dropped out and moved back to Texas. Soon after, i moved to NYC and he formed Repulse Kava. We hung out whenever possible and collaborated on fucked-up videos, collages and music whenever we got together. 'Can Your Guinea Do The Dog?' was recorded in John's dank and mystical basement in 1995. As always we just plugged in whatever was to hand and folded reality a few times. But on this occasion it included a recording of my girlfriend's deceased guinea pig and john's dog got involved for zoomorphic balance. I listened to a cassette of this jam for years until i realized that it had the strong smelling odor of a Chocolate Monk release cuz it was a meeting of the minds, as well as the pelvis - the guinea was Priscilla, and the dog was Elvis!” -Fritz Welch. 

“The deaf one from Usurper steps out and is more mysterious than the photic sneeze. Garbled minimalism might not be your bag, but how about listening to a wino using chopsticks to try and pick up scuttling insects? Or an overworked sous chef having a mental breakdown in the kitchen and living out his John Bonham fantasy with whatever comes to hand? Or maybe you get the horn at the sound of some deluded needle dick boring through the layers of an elephant skull in the mistaken belief that inside there is a sickly beverage that promises mega girth? Not enough? Well shit almighty, you even get two Black Flag 'covers'. I will let old cloth ears himself explain...” – Dylan Nyoukis. “the script wi the Flag hings was that i wanted to disable the words in the same way Usurper disables instruments. take summat away to make 'em work in new ways. i double tracked my voice: one speaking only vowels, t'other just consonants and let 'em crash together to make new sounds/unwords. get me?” – Ali Robertson. 

More illshapen and deranged brain snuff from Michigans Brothers Grime. You need that black fissure in the back off your head mended, right? Then start plastering. “SLITHER slathers strictly slack layers of hiss and too-trill reeds in single-take lakeside station session.  Sick Heath and Cotton Chris trade echoed coin-flips along a horizon whose dark moon refuses to set, in a shitbrick piss-black back alleyway leading everywhere.  Morepott loping loops elope with lingering lizard lines -- behold, the bundle of baby beats buried beneath BOSS-basted and beaten BASF blur!  "An edgy blend of heart-stopping terror, wry humor and surprising humanity" -- thar thou thready thor thissssssss ??” - C Spencer Yeh