Decaycast REVIEWS : A WHITE HUNTER “Singles Tape #1)

ImageDecaycast REVIEWS : A WHITE HUNTER “Singles Tape #1)


A White Hunter is a bay area based math rock / noise / free jazz / inprov / information overload wrapped tight in a stretched mechanical like percussive skin . The tape begins with subtle plucking and clucking of guitars and rimshots – subtle decay traila in the backgrouns visualize almost by chance mouth  sounds,  rattling percussion,  dropped guitars  

, a quiet ring  intro gives birth to a clicking, pulsing cracked  metronome of chaos.  instant plunge into middle range guitar confusion oscillators and drums that sound like they shift between analog and programmed.  A White Hunter crafts  an interesting and unique mix noisy obliteration of inverted power cord arpeggiated manuscripts of sort of free  heap mathish rock and noise . The B side begins with a more positive sounding guitar melody humming strumming lacking walls of echoed out vocals plan with guitars to bring forth spasmodic cacophonous strumming sleeping in through the background blown out fuzzed out walls of reverb give birth  to a maddening percussive onslaught of paranoia. At times somewhat resembling  like a spacemen three  outtakes demo played backwards through distortion pedal and then you turn the CD off it give burst to subtle cassette fidelity  riff environment. percussion pushing and pulling with guitars voice in Both harmony and  opposition to create a subtle yet confusing mix of math rock oriented noise blasts, arpeggiated guitars playing inside and outside of each other at the same time.  a white hunter crafts pseudo-improv next of Hard happy sounding rock songs being flushed down the toilet in the wrong ? Direction.  blast beats give birth  the recording fidelity does the band justice,  but not too much justice, as overproduced math math rock is like bad bowel movement waiting to exit and give birth to natural sounds and reverberations the production on this album  is perfect;  just enough clarity to leave you wondering what the hell is going on but not so distorted that you can’t make out instruments. This cassette  intends in the confusion and disorientation of the listener and the players also . The percussion really leads the recording forward playing off arpeggiated guitars which bleed and wellp  more percussion that blown out calms and rattling symbols gel together ; a white hunter seamlessly shifts between math/noise rock belting out walls of distortion and slipping back into near operatic light cord swell for a stripped-down lineup and simple recording techniques this tape is above average for the style definitely needs to be seen live to get the full effect
Written by : Malo

V/A “WASTED MANAGEMENT” Download (Lewcid Joosebox, 2012)

V/A “WASTED MANAGEMENT” Download (Lewcid Joosebox, 2012)

A new series of recycled cassette  compilations from the Lewcid Joosebox Imprint in Oakland. Recycled appropriated garbage pop cuver cover restructurings for  skinky stinky ink earblud  fanatics, underground and bubbling surfacs clawings , known and unknown projects from the  splay area and beyond, we  present…

The A Side….

A1     Skullcaster –     Holy Land Real Estate Scam
A2     Sexweed –     Left Hand Path
A3     Black Thread –     Letme
A4     Tape Headcleaner* –     Stay Invisible
A5     David Morin –     Force-Fed



The B Side

B1     Julia Mazawa –     Down In The Sewer
B2     Micose + The Mau Maus* –     New Improved Atrophies
B3     ctrl/v\3rr0r –     Angelfuck
B4     Cuss Words –     Are You Ready For The Sex Girls
B5     Slug Life –     Gel Foment
B6     Slicing Grandpa –     Independent Germ Balloon

Okieeee,  enjoy.  Volume 2  coming Jan 2013 from Lewcid Joosebox label



## ##click above image for  download options # ###

Recorded  by Dr. Decaycast on the CRANK STURGEON / HATERS / PCRV 2011 tour ,  DECAYCAST022: JAMES FELLA “Live 4/20/11” PHX,  AZ rips, drips, creeks, and  cracks its  way through your  consciousness. This is TOP NOTCH  fucked up tape collage SOUNDS  sucked into a unknowing  recorder on a steamy night on 4/20/2011 at the  Trunk Space In Phoenix, AZ. FELLA constructs dense, dark, spooky and  conceptually tight sound-scapes with minimal tools.  Screams, sheiks, shrieks, shrills and  creaking dying machines are  stitched together to create a wild yet concise  sonic  journey! Highly recommended checking out  his  studio recordings. We are honored that he  graced the decaycast archives with his  sounds! RIPPPPP


From Novel in Progress

 Late one night in Meshed, Iran, Sally the Smuggle trolled the streets in search of a good buyer. She had on her person twelve half-stacks of Ignusdiazem, a drug as difficult to come by in the region as it was coveted.
 Slinking down arcades and alleyways, she soon came across what she estimated to be a prospective buyer.
  It was rare to see a man dressed in a green silk suit and sunglasses at 23:45, standing near an all-night cafe (equally rare) nonchalantly smoking a cigar and eying her suspiciously as she approached him tentatively, draped in the traditional “chador” so as to appear less conspicuous.
  Still, it was incredibly dangerous for her to be out this late. Not for herself but those around her, for she was Sally the Smuggle, and she could smuggle more than lightweight objects, she could smuggle herself.
  Across the street was a mosque and two clerics stood outside passing between themselves a hash pipe. The Silkman (as he would soon be called) continued to eye her suspiciously. Suddenly a lion with spiraled horns appeared. The ground split between Sally and Silk and the sky was suddenly filled with green, incandescent orbs so that it appeared to be daylight out as far as the eye could see, or rather some sort of testing ground for extraterrestrial weaponry. The smell of sulfur filled the air and everyone save for the two S’s were frozen in place.
  “I recall long ago, I saw you in the court of an ancient king whose name escapes me. You were up to just about the same thing you are now, blending in quite apparently. But that’s neither here nor there, fact is, this fact proves you’re one of us, so why don’t we blow this popsicle stand, sweet cheeks?”
  “But- but… the lion, the orbs, ground split before us, frozen natives…”
  “What the fuck are you talking about?” Little did either of them know, one of the half-stacks had been untied by a portal stool and the mass amount of powder had mingled with her sweat, just now taking effect.
  “Tongue twister Pahlavi sediment blend of tyrants leaking point of departure from tomorrow stool softener chameleons are slipping of roofs of pure marshmallow and I’m no larger than a clown fish breathing hydrogen in adobe light sockets while Frank Sinatra creoles bloody mary agony by poolside filled with tongue depressors and Sierra Madre lack of sleep in lost yorkshire pudding and terriers leaping over shotput…”
  “Uh-oh,” the Dodger thinks to himself, “We don’t have long before this place is swarming with ‘undesirables.’ Had better make a run for it. Never a wise thing to make a scene.” He sniffs the air, “Does smell like sulfur though. Strange.” 
-Zeid bin-Zubala

An Onslaught of Idols with the Callused Dodger

Gnam had always wondered what that sight would mean upon appearance. ‘It’s not as though we make a state of these things, rather the things breach our consciousness and we fall out of sight upon appearance of usurped alters,’ he told himself, ‘We catch sight of our thoughts and our surroundings and then we breach their antiquity or we fall out of sight.’
Gnam was a man of about 32. Presently, he is 42 – by our estimates. But again, that was a long time ago. “The guy has serious thought patterns, serious redbloods. He’s breaching our coordinates now: 32, 42, 75, 81… and gone. So much for that. Hard to track this one it is. Even with a lock on him he doesn’t really appear all quite there.”

“FUCK the shallow cost of your malady. THIRTY YEARS WAR!!! Tomorrow is all becoming of on-sight speech therapy recluse cosmic plunder.”
“YOU!! You two are wanted tonight for galactic TREASON. LAY DOWN YOUR ARMS. SLOWLLLLYYYYY…”
A sentinel appears in the foyer. It’s long past sundown and there’s something in the way she moves.. It’s serpentine like, then ape like, then that of a tiger, then timid like a lemur, once more savage like that of an abused komodo dragon. With blinding speed she sets out on her targets. Two men, age incalculable, they wear garments of oranges and greens while puffing chesterfield. The taller of the two holds in his right hand a can of mace and the other a silver briefcase. It won’t be long now.

The Callused Dodger awakes with a start. “Let me sip seminal fluid from your spine as we writhe amongst the lepers, my love.” A voice whispers thusly in his left ear. It’s his dead wife. You see, when she was 17 and he 19 her father found out about their marriage, and – more vitally, their premarital escapades. This is frowned down upon in the Muslim community (which Dodger does not subscribe to, all the worse) and so he set her on fire, genitals first. Naturally, the Dodger was less than happy about this. He went to the old man’s village with the most ill intent, but – to the old mans credit – her father had committed suicide by way of an Indian Necktie (this is when one’s tongue is pulled through the arbitrarily-imposed orifice created after having their throat slit so as to make it appear that they are wearing a certain fashion accessory.) I wouldn’t have thought it possible either.

– Zeid.


OZ SOUND/sculpture/performance artist TOM HALL has been captivating audiences in both Australia and The States for years now, more and more refined visceral performances. Throats taped to computers, bodily feedbacks, blank stares and bass crumbles. This guy is INTENSE and this audio and video combo that he has kindly offered up to Decaycast is nothing shy of a stunning shocking reminder of one’s own mortality. Trust HALL —– as he leads you down a cold, medical, urban soundscape, in which the pressure of the city’s failing structure forces your lungs to implode and new foundations are built from the remains of your nervous system.

more videos…

Holiday Heart “Sexphone” remixed by Alienslang

HOLidAyHearT_ALiEnSLAnG_SEXPHONEBITCH by wigwamtongue

I (Alienslang) have recently had the opportunity of remixing a track by Holiday Heart! “sexphone” is being remixt by many artists and will eventually be compiled and posted to Band Camp.

—>remix album hear>>>>>

Decaycast#012: Oakland Graffiti Detroit Concrete


Dental Work has been compared to a kitty litter infested heated noise garbage dump with a continuous shamanistic television playing psuedo-religious and italian rape scenes; A sonic chastity blast/flask is administered just before you are served a massive poisoned rat dumpling to aid in mental re-construction. You must wash the canals of your spaghetti-like brain matter in preperation for Dental Work’s mechanical pigeon dildo seance.
High pressure delayed Ouija board manipulations merged with lo-fi , ritualistic AM radio telepathy, unhealthy turntable modification and an array of urethra knives conveniently located within the anal salsa of humanity.”

Dental Work Is Jay Paul Watson and a cross country collaborator with the Ratskin crew….

Decaycast#011:Gumball Rimpoche “I Had a Dream Last Night” aka???? Decaycast Mix.

GUMBALL RIMPOCHE “I Had A Dream Last Night” Mix. 19:07 {35mb}

Mr. Rimpoche composes 19 minutes of stellar aural frontal lobe circus surgery with voice, samples, and nano-technology. composed for the un-ex-sub-non conscious 29th century intellectual. Die 999 times and be reborn 1000 ..and it gets better every time with this one. This kid’s a star in 2010, no doubt about…Sounds best in a dark cement room with cockroach reverberation flickering your inner ear.. ……These writings were encrypted within the audio file that came from the artists’s hacked computer harddrive,,,,,
“On the night of the last RATSKIN show, I had a very strange and…
mundane dream.

I was at a Lady Gaga concert, enjoying the rediculous pop spectacle,
when she decided to make things a bit more interesting– laying down
on the stage spread-eagle, she exposed her writhing tarantula bush to
the audience. I immediately (as if by instinct) jumped up there and
dove straight in.

After that we were inseperable, each feeding from the others’ bloated
ego like two fat grubs connected asshole to asshole (Ouroboros?) The
sex was blindingly mediocre–filled with knives and empty promises.
We wrote and produced two albums together before our love consumed all
reason and we found ourselves filled with drugs and trapped in a
shithole apartment in Queens. I tried to dump her for a vocoder, but
she wasn’t having it..

The double murder that resulted is still one of the strangest unsolved
cases of all time.”