The recording spread like wildfire across old school Geocities pages, all brimstone and bible quotes and spinnyskull.gifs. All in a day’s work for sinister religious propaganda, with but one glaring downside… the recording was pants.
The recording spread like wildfire across old school Geocities pages, all brimstone and bible quotes and spinnyskull.gifs. All in a day’s work for sinister religious propaganda, with but one glaring downside… the recording was pants.
Mr Gav’s July Grindcore Round up
Deathstorm – We Are Deathstorm (Fathme) http://www.myspace.com/deathsstorm Masonna / Runzelstirn And Gurgelstock – Clitoris Projectile Pump Action (Tochnit Aleph) http://www.tochnit-aleph.com/
"I’ve got a clean copy of it now and I warn you, this could scare you" – It’s really the only way to DJ this stuff without scaring the shit out of everybody, including yourself. Micro radio celeb Art Bell warns listeners that he has field recordings of Hades itself, captured by Siberian miners who lowered heatproof recording equipment into a mysterious air pocket deep inside the Earth’s crust. The recording spread like wildfire across old school Geocities pages, all brimstone and bible quotes and spinnyskull.gifs. All in a day’s work for sinister religious propaganda, with but one glaring downside… the recording was pants.
It sounded like a busy indoor swimming pool, and not a particularly evil one at that. A slight exaggeration perhaps, but here goes: the real sounds from Hell wouldn’t actually arrive for another decade, in a strike of inspiration for one Dutch gabbertarian and an Osakan shrieksmith. By crossbreeding slightly weary routines Deathstorm are now making orange things in reverse, using laptop know-how to expand the grind-closet into at least a walk in. We Are Deathstorm plays out like gore standard You Suffer stretched to epic proportions – XIV tracks of strepsil-defying vowel-play from tongue’s tip to gag reflex, served with blasts of rhythmic pulverisation, slobbery uber-human barking and a constant sense of ‘what’s next?’.
And here’s the twist: in the hands of serial genius producer Bong Ra, now-cohort Maruosa’s normal workout of ‘trigger breakneck clangs and bangs, spasm through crowd, rinse, repeat’ takes on brand new dimensions because, given the benefit of a second protagonist, we can now roam the drone works and grunge core which surround his brutal spectacle. No longer a rake thin Japanese goth shouting in your face. IV tracks in, when noise-lag threatens, a chainsaw (no, really. a chainsaw) shreds through the mix, at once replacing synth-hum and duetting with our humble narrator (“GWLARGHFAAAGH!!!").
They are deep-throating the mic, they are chewing up tapes, they are Deathstorm! On the subject of blood-curdling scree, two of the world’s most notorious Primitivists have carved yet another grizzly statue on the courtyard of Primitivist noise imprint Tochnit Aleph this month. Masonna’s Side A comes on like a Tex Avery cowboy firing his boomstick at a pesky mosquito and builds up to what sounds like a field recording of somebody shitting hand grenades one at a time. There’s a rhythm to it like that. Arguably though, his all-vocal onslaught is merely the warm up to a shiny new B Side by the creative force behind Runzelstirn and Gurgelstock, an artist constantly accused of the being the most important in the land of the living. Rudolph Eb.Er is a wonder to behold – some Come To Daddy looking guy in a gasmask, all ribs and clenched fists, down on his knees, humping the atmosphere itself while letting out sporadic humanisms – snorts, moans, gurgles. He’s been known to unleash angry chickens mid-performance. It’s the dirtiest, most low down one man show in town. An emaciated GG Allin throwing sonic punches at flinchy onlookers without even bringing faeces into the equation.
His (rare, extensive) track flies out in lumps and conjures mass suffering on a cinematic scale; roads grumbling open, chainsaws, a whole barnyard shrieking in abject terror, grim one shots of demented laughter, a tool shed where he makes up suffering; at least three actual orgasms on a soiled mattress of uncomfortable silence and searing blasts of metal machine music. Stamina-allowing, if you get to hear him do to stylophones what … did to … (I’m sorry, no musician was ever badass enough to fill in those blanks), you probably deserve a medal or a pat on the head from the Queen or something. A truly worthwhile experience, if only for the red raw and utterly disgusting crescendo of loud, awkward hand-clapping toward the third quarter. Blergh…