META-NOMAD

Review: digital americana mixtape

There’s an odd formation of ye olde Green Day grossness within the first strums, throw me a bone slices into a vibrant cocktail of pain, energy and remorse, the lyrics almost undefinable, reminiscent of a chaotic young-adult malaise spent amongst estates of dry grass. At once and all together you begin falling, a youthful freedom tinged with responsibility, deterministic punks.

eviction – entry of the DIY aesthetic ten-fold, crust and sludge combine into a harsh feedback of nausea-noise. Shoulders dislocate and the dancefloor rectangle spirals into a circular alco-chem-mess. The frame of the tracks so far a broken speaker, giving its all to the last, vibrations as formation. Caustic feedback as a musical resolution. Evicted from your ear drum’s expectations. and so damn angry‘s beginnings see reliable sincere angst mutate into something a little more digital, americana falling apart at the seams, becoming only capital-cana within the contemporary. Anger of the 21st century…exhaustion and apathy and the tap of a metal-machine, fractured digital output. There’s a sadness in the loss of the singular and fixed, yet what of an entire generation who knew no different.

happywaiting. A strange assemblage of notes, scrapes and whines, oddly jaunty and forgetful synonymously, the bar its own, its smell putting others off. cold shoulder to cry on quickly understands the subtle escape attempts of punks’ formative years, from the background, encased in a suffocative gauze of drone is the sincerity of a lonely musician attempting to scramble at the scraps, swiftly strummed into place by an faintly upbeat riff.

care, there’s lots of it within this album, a modest, warm and husky-late-night-sesh filled embrace of what went wrong. Withdrawing much of the energy from past artists, too many to name, into an exhausted, sympathetic and yet encouraging voice of a move forward, however bleak the first few steps might be. hellion 1, the digital disallowing true connection, a tinkered flicker and then dudbeats and 404’s spat into a sporadic frenzy. A heart palpitation run through melting vinyl. With bark alone testifying to the neutrality of your decision; western digital and western waste care not for what you do, just move. Post-nasal drip spluttered down strings.

walk with me allows the past to enter more thoroughly, a mid-morning, hot-sun jig with a beer, but everyone here senses that everyone here aint that great; feelin’ rough, hangover tough, dicky belly, foggy skull and over into the next morning, glugging down to bear the pain.

your heart’s too hungry. One of the best tracks I have the pleasure to review. A defiant sigh beaconed to no one, but fuck, why not. Maybe you should stop, maybe you shouldn’t, this album’s as pleasant as a hangover is going to get, your fear’s strange, not tacked to anything really.

Gotta admit, I went into a nostalgic trance for a bit there, :: i love you but, didn’t help, it takes me back somewhere I really can’t put my finger on, somewhere covered in annoyance and disappointment and yet, comfort. You only want to be horizontal right now, face perpendicular to the skies, colour don’t matter, you’re in your head…and you aint getting out for a while. Sorry champ.

 


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Review: CLWNWRLD PRESENTS: THE RINGLEADER’S SYMPHONY

You’re sat in this cafe, this cafe. The windows, the large, bowing panes of glass feel as if they’re vibrating, reflecting and strumming against bulb lines. Maleficent trembles as your entire glaze’s over, eyes over chips and under-others into a chem-soup. Into the muzak-home of a banal existence, falling backwards into plastic and mundanity as one does during a slow mourning; the daily march overstrung by a realist chorus of chiming techscape. [_Jester’s Bliss_] is our trance-trajectory into meditative k-scapes.

[_Train of Freaks_] is where the literal nature of the album awakens. The paranoia and intrusion of boxcart trivilations suffocates you, unable to focus on nothing or something, a constant to-and-fro of anxiety-sweats, too much coffee creates a beat-pandemic of repetition. Gaping caustic reverb mutating into authorative cluster-headaches. Don’t bother. [_Eyes in the Shadows_] does it too. We have two for the price of one on paranoid underground haste, flicking into ‘worst’-mode, coat-grip away from those. A spiralling tunnel-drone into your back as you refuse to turn. Haunted subways united the fears of the strange and mundane.

There’s calm in light, but only if one has just been removed from the dark, the reality is, the horror never leaves and a reminder of its existence only exacerbates your quivers. And your heart does this…thing, an expansion of the blood, cells collapse outward, muscle-pain, lung-stretch. Each deep breath acts as an aching reminder of life within the smog-pen. you, you… [_Drunkard_]. [_Leaf Lady’s Song_] tin steps past an arcade, a young lad without limbs drums on an arcade machine, rolling his head on the buttons in hope of hitting the big time. A Lynchian “Watch that man! Watch that man! Watch that man!” or “Hey! Hey! Hey…Sally!” with verbal elongation and smokers husk wouldn’t go a miss here; backstreets, fuck you, smoke behind the eyes.

[_Liz’s House of Color_] damn this thing kicked in.”Hey shut the fuck up im listening.” “Hasn’t that guy drunk 8lbs of coffee today.” the street flicks into anxious-time, a ripple effect under your feet and unto the morning into an eye-roll begotten. Teen tam tom and the trance rolls into a chased temporal agency, you want a headcave, watch this. Arcade boy has grow a huge leg and is stomping onto you, the subway train has stopped just out of sight and you just know the driver is reversing in hopes of finding you. Where’d you leave your bag? It had your Grandma’s polyfiller in it, she uses it to glue her teeth in. You wonder why the beat works for a second, just before it crashes. You’re finally home, resting your hand on your head, brain matter clicking into channel Z, LCD flickers in and out, tech-shutters and shadows of a neon sun fall upon your lids. Your sofa fucking hates your plump arse.

Sometimes my face shifts between 2 to 3 planes, flesh on flesh.

Laughter…from the rafters. Those little fuckin’ Deet Deets at it again. Beep boop. It will not stop. “Hey ma.” “Yes.” “?” “It’s been going on for days love, just ignore it.” [_A Midnight Conversation_] has begun. Over and over, then, then, the phone rings, a long jaunty ring, puts me in a fun panic. We call it happy sweat, the perspiration becomes faster, and faster, I spew sweat like jets from the innards of my elbows. I gotta sit down. I can’t, I’m still on the fucking train. Clowntime is in. Loud, open mouths produce rotund boops. They arch forward and back, faster each time, throwing their heads back and forth, smiles getting wider, and not a hair on their clown heads moving. Static comedic pulsating on a train. A pivoting immovable nightmare, I try to move, they all scream. Clowntrain baby! They march. The nightmare you have to sit through, acknowledging the pain one is about to suffer prior to suffering, this is hell. yet, sometimes, the pain doesn’t come, and one is left into a clicking-coma of worry.

Off you fucking get. The train doors were made of bio-waste. They sludge in and you step off. The ride keeps going. Out into [_Hollow City_] you know you’ve left this time, there’s no light. Just heavy beams of dark glow. You just want to walk. [_New Life_] plays like a pleasent Nintendo game, a farming sim. A warm summer where you kissed a girl once fades into memory, skyscrapers dissolve into the background for a momentary glimpse of contentment [_Perching Square_] Look at this fucking idiot. indeed. it’s clownworld, screech time clicks into gear, mechanistic screams for dumb human dreams. Try move, bitch. No movement, only submission to any clown who wonders by, an old animation where the lines are schizophrenic. Resist. The end here is sincerely morbid, a melancholic death involving tech, I can’t explain this; there’s acceptance here, a deep acceptance…of the future, and all that it will bring, it is he who walks knowingly into an electro-static death space.

[_NUTMEG SESH_] OH ma BOY. You were prepared for the future you thought, you didn’t think it would be so malicious, and downright mean. watch it, watch it all. Every vice of the past flicked into overgear and assembled on a hedonistic plane of sadomasochism. Industrial sex-drive mashed into a flesh blend. [_Manifesto_] the utilization of the previous tracks work as a means to contextualize the death of coherence into a chasmic meltdown of sonics. [_Take a Hint Royal Jester_] but that’s the problem isn’t it, the future doesn’t take hints, the temporal jester throwing  himself into chaotic schizo-tonic, why don’t you take a hint, yeah…

 

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Review: Canned Meat – Soundtrack for Over​-​the​-​Counter Pharmaceuticals

Soundtrack for Over​-​the​-​Counter Pharmaceuticals R E V I E W

Facing eternity within a flesh-based ontology. The sky here a deep static, orchestrated from the past. Pharma-scape exists as a soundtrack prescription to a mundane life.

The unique nature of medicinal stench hits my nostrils, pharmaceutical stores reek of desperation:

Hey Chap, why don’t you get fucked!”

I collapse into a flesh heap and we begin.

I am with the floor, strewn sack of bone-coverings emancipating gallons of vomit-inducing sweat into every aisle. Pillboy climbs onto the counter and spins on one leg, shin-bone freeing itself, firing a flag-dart into my spinal column. Sweat Angels in Bedsheets he repeats over and over and over, increasing in speed, until it blends into delirium, a chaotic mixture of opiate brain-chasm and rust filings…eventual release into a swamp of tinnitus. Floor trembling, hurling chunks of rotten pill-dogs into the cities ventilation shafts. The city sleeps perpetually, in an ever pulsating slumber of hell-dreams. Upon waking the transition is so smooth one knows never where ‘n what ‘n when they are and the drums continue until the your head is ache.

– f l e s h d e s c e n d s – Sun-Ra Spirals – f l e s h d e s c e n d s

Revelry of nomadic om descends from a pill-legume heaven, a transcendent symptomatic malaise covers all. Minor ticks involved within the rare behaviours – they’ll pass with time -, none of this is psycho-somatic, it’s pure pill dictatorship as the static rises into a cacophony of hellish drone-time.

Downwards the effects begin to take place, beginning to rise and fall. Your sweat jumping out and back in, each and every gland attending and expanding for its own nausea. You pile them to the back of your throat as the plastic wrappings melt into a sludge trickling off your teeth, singular affects combining into a distorted enlightenment. And stop. The eye of the storm has malformed beyond comedown into dark-tranquillity, plateau-time is now. A member of the union shouts from afar:

Do you have enough electrolytes boy?”

I return a quip “Ktttssexiphenxetopratenzenzapetsatoladrine! Ine! Adol! Ine!” as each layer of my psyche flickers over the next and under the former, causing dopamine collapse. Each plateau ascending into a higher level of melodic chaos, each second attending to the caustic end of a dirty VHS reel, dragging its tail through pharma-splinters in the hope of death.

Foaming Blood isn’t attending any of your polite shit, as each tooth rots from the root until all that’s left is bone-foam, lunging up from your gums, out of mouth, dissolving floor. Vibrations loosen each socket of your being, until simulacrum of tremble. You’ve been invited to what looks to be a short melody, allowing you to recompose the overdose into a worse structure, you begin to survey the damage, your psyche has been dismantled and workers are feasting on the separation. They’re having a party, with the splayed relic of a collapsed lung as the centrepiece, each singular line is an impossibility, vibration and repetition initiates a confusion in the crowd, rampant idea-incest begins prior to the Hellenistic vomit ritual. Follow the bile-brick road: lines of micro-workers, each holding a white blood cell, dance in perfect time, retching gut drippings into your veins and stems. You’re being remoulded, legs of concrete, head of medication-Jell-O.

A clip of humanity comes through the blood-film atmosphere, its crass nature pauses all efforts of frivolity as we’re taken back to a dead Eden. Dead Eden pretending to care, the chimes made of pill-casings, and the harps assembled from tendons. Eat from the tree, eat from the floor, eat from the snake, for it’s all pharma. We can help you feel how we want you to. A nationalistic repeat covers the world, salutes from all, cover your heart before the mulch it’s become drips out. Rib-ache. – Waiting for the Scalpels to Arrive in the MailThere’s a point in time wherein screams become futile, not because of atmospheric lack, because of pure aural suffocation, a drill like odour hum so violent your widened mouth crumbles, lips melt into one another, flesh decelerates into a pulp-casing.

Allowed subtle reminders of pharma worship, knelt before gates made of ache and crush. The devoted allow their migraines, for hope of pharmaceutical intervention. They beckon and descend down each vein, each slower than the last, your kneel becomes compulsory. Kneel before the great dispenser and pray for a maggot sized helping. Lines of skulls jerk in time, choreographed seizures act as sacrifice. Arms lift themselves, skin brings with it heavy bone, perpetual fracturing. The ground entirely grated metal, to allow for extension seepage. Hell is a repetition never interrupted, a repeat so loud no sound can enter. The great churn begins, knee caps fragment, flying through each orifice. Your entire being is displaced into a welcoming tumour. There’s no layers here, plateau eradication as the perpetual swirl gears in. The dark meditation, allies with the alien Cancer. A job of death. The purpose of an existence is to end another’s. Eternal drug-spiral within an unconscious mass of breathing tissue. Becoming-fever, sweat-session, hallucinogenic-nausea: The Cancer Killing Bees Part II is over:

Rewind the serotonin tape please…ple…pl…”


Canned Meat

Lovecrypt

Review: Nishiki Prestige – XOXO

The factory of LOVECRYPT came to me via the incessant malaise of ‘Weird Twitter™”. A basic-bitch search for fresh music isn’t going coax it into appearance. It disturbed my interests due to its extrovert leanings on the esoteric, political & philosophical. – “Who taught you how to write about music?”

No one. But I jus’ listened to that there XOXO by Nishiki Prestige, and I sure as h-hell wanna dish my digits into the keyboard, see what falls out, you know?”

“nO one will hire you.”

“HELLO! And welcome to the album review for Nishiki Prestige’s XOXO, an album put out by LOVECRYPT FREQUENCIES. And boy oh boy oh boy, we have one hell of an album for you. Help help.”

To digest the few remaining ashes of music journalism, tasty little titbits of shit. The problem here being that the factory-esque vision of marching k-ants divulged by XOXO’s first track 10 Years has seduced me into a rotten disorientation. Thrown into an insta-nostalgia for a future within its own creation; I’m witnessing a labour-march, an assembly line.

 

And When Grew Up Way Too Fast climbs down, the disorientation diversifies into chasmic slows and rises; the birth of constant beginnings, every halt ‘n jerk is a possibility for another circuit and direction, towards another musical commodity. And this creative spasmodic zombie rides high into Haunted Stars hounding with it large areas of tonality and pressure, both of which are teased continuously; a melodic form of stress. The first of many tracks in which the past is captured and held in the background, seeping through when the pipe occasionally bursts: retro-static bulges and nostalgic urges of known music appear.

Let me tell you this boys ‘n girls. The whole damn thing is like Burrough’s dirty K-offspring. A big ol’ fancy pants article, that could well be non-linear. Deleuze would say oh boy maybe they just well damn get it.”

The fragmentary consumer aspect of Apply to Broke Skin shifts inwards. Commodified medical plasters for the album itself, cornerstones of thought – Zizek on ACC – key themselves in. But not before we’re told to Celebrate good times, Celebrate Accelerate good times. The mandatory cause for Acc-celebration is the Acceleration itself. All is immanent.

The night-circuit science fictions surrounding Zuckerberg come to life in a hyper-circus named Zuck Theme, where the fun is but a simulation – we’re all on this programmed holiday. The relaxation accelerates. A harder relaxation for a premium member! The fun gets better! Just prior to the k-collapse as the test ends. Holiday-terminated.

The mellow tick-work of human flesh, its evaporation. Its comfort.

The slow embrace of a singular heroic hum. Melting into acidic launchpad.

 

“I like fast music.”

Julie, would you agree that one could say…if they so wished, that the grandiose themes utilized in this sporadic album would seem arrogant when used elsewhere, but here, amongst the disjointed quasi-hedonism of acceleration, they become gentle reminders of history eating itself?”

Oh Jonathan, I would agree, but I hate your filthy gut smell.”

 

Downtime was never invented as we hurl another into the grind. K-Goth. Those textural relics once seeping through are subsumed into consumerist submission just as quickly as they’re re-written, re-packaged and sold. Cybermemory is failing. Amongst Lifetime of Grey Skies one believes, that maybe, oh just maybe, there was someone onboard who could impersonate a pilot, because this sure is a friendly minute or so. But that lack returns – in Baby, If You Come that need for something revelling in its cyber-vitality, that acidic pinch of the fresh-take ad infinitum.

 

And the guidebook says: N O S T A L G I A FOR TOMORROW: no hope for today.

 

An attempt, I think dear audience, at articulation of the fact that acceleration is not synonymous with speed, and holds its real purpose and eventual terminal-degree in reformulation.”

 

Imagine a piece of data facing its eventual death, breathing its last. – I’ll Be There For You.

 

Future is a Machine would work well as a traditional end, but there’s no end to acceleration!”

 

* applause *

AND OH christ. It’s all capital R real and the rag ended cyber-guts trail off into this ephemeral, anti-tranquil hellscape. And as we sit arm in arm, hand in hand, bearing witness to the consumer horizon overtaking humanity, an aural assemblage of all that was provides the soundtrack to our demise.


 

A link/player to Nishiki’s album can be found below, along with various other relevant links:

Lovecrypt Twitter

Nishiki Prestige Twitter

Meta-Nomad Twitter