DECAYCAST Reviews: Choisir Le Pire “-” (LE TOMBEAU DES MUSES, 2018)

DECAYCAST Reviews: Choisir Le Pire “-” (LE TOMBEAU DES MUSES, 2018)

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Choisir Le Pire is a newer project out of Metz, France  focusing on  harsh noise / harsh noise wall and this  new  cassette release is no  exception. Released on the newly formed LE TOMBEAU DES MUSES imprint also out of France. “-” as it’s  titled wastes no  time slicing the listener with  sharp, grating, alienating plumes of  static  filled gut  wrenching harsh noise with some  HNW and  even Power  Electronics sections to boot.

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The strongest track on this release, “De Charybde en Scylla.“, which is also the  opening track on the  A side offers  the most interesting and  dynamic work on the album,  featuring an ominous sludgy, fuzzed out  thick  droning intro  which is  quickly and  swiftly encapsulated by violent throbbing stabs of  sonic mayhem; grating, dark, and  uncertain. This tape is the  perfect soundtrack to a nauseating feeling that comes  moments before  leaping off  a  cliff into the  black abyss. The closing track, Ce qu’il en rester. is another favorite with it’s  blistering  shuttering fast paced dynamic  stabs and wells, peaks and  troughs of a  chaotic land, Choisir Le Pire wastes no  time and no sound, it’s all said and nothing is said  except for the  blood running slowly down the  side of the  listeners neck out of their ear. Focused, sharp and  agitated harsh noise release with  beautiful design and packaging to boot. Check out more from the  label and  artist via the links  above.

– malo

 

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DECAYCAST Reviews: ZSA ZSA GABOR “Left Skull Bank” Cassette (Stay Strange, 2017)

DECAYCAST Reviews: ZSA ZSA GABOR “Left Skull Bank” Cassette (Stay Strange, 2017)

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“ZSA ZSA GABOR is dead” but the  sounds, voice, and pulses in a ritual are anything and everything but that. ZSA ZSA GABOR is one of the artists and founders of the Stay Strange SD Crew who boast a new label imprint, show collective and all creative force led by San Diego stalwart Sam Lopez aided in sound and  words from Ariel Irbe, Esteban Flores and Micheal Zimmerman, allwith their  own projects to boot under the  collective umbrella. Irbe performs and records  under the  S O L V  moniker, while Flores work as  Monochromacy represents  powerful, thick, radicalized  guitar  forward drone/noise works.  

“Left Skull Bank I” opens up the cassette after a brief intro with a dark, smudged, thick drone which slowly encapsulates the listener and then drops them in a voice cell of terror, confusion, disorientation, The time to talk isn’t now or maybe again for an hour  or even a year. Seal your lips shut for it’s  time for the  hymn of ZSA ZSA GABOR. This release is relentlessly and refreshingly diverse in its sonic character and nuance of sound and style; oscillation between spoken texts , drone, ambient, field recordings, distant screams that  ring like a hammer  smashing an ancient bell,  and  string based  swells ZZG has something for everyone , but at the sane time NOTHING FOR YOU. They owe you nothing and owe  everything to the void. Full tilt  sonic mayhem engulfs your  last thought and hope as your skull is  cast aside like an extra, misshaped, unneeded brick into the  ever-growing pile of death.

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“Left Skull Bank 2” picks up close to  where part 1 left off, with a thick, buzzing,  shaking vibrato of  stringed chaos while a monotone, anxious, realistic voice reads and  breathes upon every swelling  stringed drone of death, and after a “brief  demonic interlude” the listener is  cast once again into the  chaotic experiments of death with Part three, twisting and  tangling the  false hope that we once had  with harsh stabs, angry, dissonant, atonal swells through a purgatory nobody wants to  even pass by for a minute. This  cassette runs the  full scope of experimental sounds but in a a unique and refreshing way, no rehashing, no redux, this is simply top notch experimental music,  get about it, be about it. .ZSA ZSA  GABOR  is a thick, swollen, controlled  anger, which is more or less the  sound of  a  decaying  future; you’re dead long after you  found out when you’re  going  to die, and if you’re worthy this  might make an appearance at the funeral to help shovel your lifeless  corpse to  rest eternally and be consumed by the  wormed earth. Follow  ZSA ZSA GABOR HERE and HERE.

 

 

 

DECAYCAST Reviews: MOIRA SCAR “Wound World Part 1” (Near Dark, 2018)

 

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Bay Area queer deathrock stalworts MOIRA SCAR are back with their new full length on CD/CS/ and  digital via Oakland’s NEAR DARK imprint, which is run by dark gothic outfit, OTZI whose newest offerings, “Ghosts” was  covered HERE a few weeks ago. Moira Scar currently is in trio form with their latest offering  with Roxy Monoxide: guitar, sax, vocals, LuLu Gamma Ray: synthesizers, vocals, and Aimee S: drums. Moira Scar’s newest full length, “Wound World Part 1” boasts seven snappy, punchy, femme forward dark punk/death rock cuts,  intentionally building upon their unique, sought after, indimable sound of their previously released full lengths, “Psychoid”  and “Scarred For Life”. With an augmented lineup, and a slightly darker and more rock forward sound, “Wound World Part 1” might be the most intentionally straight forward, intense  and focused sound the outfit has  concocted yet, and the  recording production suits the  sound perfectly. Thick pummeling percussion, wailing, screaching vocals, fuzzed-out chugging, angular guitar riffs and the staple walls of  reverb’d saxophone.

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Snap Back” might be the most traditionally “Moira Scar” sounding cut on here blending heavy bass riffs, walls of  sax with driving punk inspired hard hitting  drumming and the signature  layered vocal efx stylings which could take the  sonic shape of anything from low  distorted  growls to high pitched shrieks of intense washes,  utilized to great success on the track “Chrysalis Skull” The operatic style walls of  vocals blend perfectly over the frantic, manic heavy  drumming and thick slabs of  guitar and  bass work. Slower, more  post rock inspired track “Zeta Rainbow” offers chugging, blown up guitar riffs with dragging slagged out bass lines with more  traditional breakdowns where the guitar and  dual vocal  processions shine brightest.

Moira Scar’s  sound is  thick, violent,  present, and demanding of the space it requires and  deserves. Death rock, like any “sub-genre” can be formulaic, boring, and  predictable, but “Wound World Part 1” is the complete opposite; fierce, unique, cathartic, and nasty!. In a time where we need it most,  Moira Scar once again, and perhaps with more force than ever proves they are  here to stay with some of the most forward thinking and necessary sonic offerings within the contemporary rock scope. This record rallies against the dying, boring, overdone and under thought  droves of CIS white-male “dominated”capitalistic rock scenes, by raising the bar and  flushing the  boring and  inspired rock trends down into the sewer where they have belonged this entire time, and serve as an assault on the  normative, re-hashed, uninspired music that often fills the  airwaves. Moira Scar is a weapon against a  violent, patriarchal system of despair, confusion, and  entanglement and  “Wound World Part 1” is the next logical step in the bands seemingly endless progression of reinvention. One of the most important contemporary dark rock acts going, period. This record is not to be overlooked.

Order the  New record HERE and  HERE

MOIRA SCAR

NEAR DARK RECORDS

DECAYCAST Reviews : PROUD FATHER “Creations for Electric Guitar” Cassette (Reserve Matinee, 2018)

Proud Father offers up a solid guitar based drone / ambient album on the “Reserve Matinee” imprint, titled “Creations for Electric Guitar” The album opens up softly with distant sonic sine wave synth swells caked in the reverb of an ancient sonic event. Beginning like an unsure creature taking its first steps, the first track, “Kokoro no jiin de no tomin” starts with a slow crawling distant hum which begrudgingly builds with character and intensity until it’s rolling wave of psychedelic noise. Lots of patterns of stretching, loss, reaching and long swells breathe through each other to create a lush, multi timbre stew of chaos. The artist slowly and subtly builds up to a noisy chaotic crescendo via walls of fluttering guitar , ringing drones and crawling warm, decaying synths, however the work never veers too far off course for confusion.; the major drone remains omnipresent and always pulsing as the spine of the entire album.

Dispite the lack of sonic dispute between many of the sounds a rather large scope of styles within drone and minimalistic electronic music are indeed explored. One minute we’re caught in a thick fog and several minutes later the fog lifts to an arping sun of synth patterns paying homage to acts like Heldon /Richard Pinhas (who the second side of the cassette is indeed for according to the artist’s writeup on the performance which this is from) , and early Tangerine Dream / Edgar Forese. With or without that information and point of reference, Proud Father offers up their own unique twist on guitar forward electronic music . Sounds blend and give birth to new events in a ping pong of hazy tones resonating the inner ear cochlear of the listener. These aren’t songs but they are ? Is it one big song?! either way it’s more a plentiful offering for the drone fan than the one looking for a quick fix; the sonic payoff is the crescendo and the reoccurring descent from that back into a distant lost ships last cry for communication to shore or anywhere for that matter.

Two tracks on either side of the cassettes however things blend rather nicely throughout offering a consistent wash of tripped out meditative drone for us to lose the day and the grip in. Fun and unique listen overall.

Proud Father on Bandcamp

“12/3/12”

Late Tuesday night and Crash sits on his couch, inert. It’s 10:03 PM and sycophants are on his mind.

It’s the sad state of this dilemma. Take or be taken to.  But the Lakota are rising up- why can’t he?

He’s breaking out in welts again. He’s dreaming and he can’t seem to make it out. Rhines? Pines? What was that again?

Burn-away rice cream flailing. A tincture of green and yellow. Two children are running down a flight of stairs. The stairs are each one foot tall and imprinted with Quranic verses. Qabbalah strings lurch out at them.

“The cochlear implants could be useful to the average man if one could encode their transmissions to paper.  They could be our greatest weapon.” One says.

Two replies, “What of the boy in Dusseldorf? Are you saying he came to us unknowingly?”

One, “Don’t they always?”

Two replies, “Not always.”

One, “Oh, here comes Crash.”

Crash interjects, “Let’s get off this sour subject. What of transplants?”

One, “We put them in a bowl. Let the fates decide.”

Two replies, “Spectacularly. The amulet Raid left, what do you think of it?”

Crash interjects, “..After finishing the food, an assortment of octopus tentacles and tin cans, the monk walked along with the peddler and spoke with him. ‘Leif Erickson had two children, William (Bill) Leif (1946) and Susan Irene (1950). Why I tell you this? Because it is a matter of public policy. You see Leif Erickson was no normal actor. In fact, he was the greatest actor. For he was moonlighting as a Hollywood actor when he in fact was an agent for the KGB, which was in FACT a SUBdivision of the Israeli Mossad. You see, it all goes back to 1876 in which the Zionists and the Sri Lankans joined arms. But that’s a different story. You might consider getting in touch with Tom Richard, his number is (781) 235-1004.” He then knew the hardship and unluckiness of the peddler. The monk continues, “Opium was actually derived from a space lichen. That is to say some purple fuzz that grew on the outside of Rod’s spaceship, survived reentry. Anyway so i was fucking this chick right, she told me she wanted a facial. so i said sure would you like it spiced up a bit?” As they parted, the monk took out a clay doll-like statue from his bag and gave it to the peddler, telling him to treat it well everyday so that his luck will change. Soon after that, the peddler’s business got better and better and his wife birthed children exposed to radiation on average grow to be smaller and less apt to sprout loarizinine and leap out into faith. Hordes of ’em. Sheeple can turn word documents into ketamine ask me how. I breathe, relocate the off switch and gladly disappear. Scratch out the crevices previously worked, Big Wheels.”

Big Wheels is a man of about 40. We’ve known him since high school, you see. He’s a member of the Lakota Indian tribe. He always keeps a .22 on the Davenport and wanted to carry out film on paper before filming it…”

“Hank’s coming to town.” Big Wheels extols the virtues of the Russian Peoples. Hank Sokolov is his name. We’ll get to him a bit later for the second night in a row the Callused Dodger looks out his window and wonders where that green light is coming from. Often times it shows up while the Dodger is winding down with a with a glass of Red Label. You might call it a “neon puke” green, but it’s rather unrelenting. He recalls an old Japanese Doctor describing one of the victims from Hiroshima who somehow made it 3 kilometers after being scorched by gamma rays and infrared and fire. 

“I encountered the first victim halfway back to Hiroshima. This black thing suddenly popped out from the side of the road, swaying unsteadily. I had no idea what it was. I slowed down my bicycle and gradually moved closer and realized that it was a person.”

 Sipping Merlot The Dodger licks his lips. He recalls an assault with napalm he once witnessed in Honduras. It all stemmed from a dispute over a rice dumpling. The entire family was reduced to embers. Hog-tied and then doused mercilessly, drowned in a sea of plastic and fire.

“I tried to look at its face, but it didn’t have one. There were these two big swollen balls where the eyes should be, a gaping hole for their nose, and the lips had puffed up so big that they were covering half the face. It was hideous. And it had a black thing that looked like a sleeve draped off its arm, so I initially thought that it was wearing rags. I was wondering what all this meant when suddenly the person started moving toward me. My first reaction was to move back. But then it tripped over my bike and fell down. Being a doctor, I immediately rushed forward and tried to take its pulse. But the skin from the entire arm had slipped off and there was nowhere for me to touch.” 

Mckinley has just turned twelve today. He draws up a straw-full of Cherry Coke and eyeballs his mother hungrily. That’s just Mckinley for you: cold, deanimated, devourous eyes of red and green and doom. He lifts the serrated cake cutter intently. He scrutinizes it, he becomes it. Still eyes dead set on his mother he lifts the blade and brings it through the first slice of ice cream cake.

“I realized then that the person was not wearing rags but was entirely naked. What I had thought were sleeves was actually raw skin that had peeled off from the body and was dangling down. The skin on its back had also burned and peeled off completely, and there were dozens of small shards of glass piercing the surface. The person suddenly twitched a couple of times, and then lay completely still. It was dead.” 

“Any culture unbeknownst to swallows and seagulls in Spring in Tuesday is never known outside of all-seeing tongues of unwretchables and wanton alien delights never to become final is one thing automatic .44 caliber deactivates a final plummet in lime green tongues in Summer you can’t know what it is I’m unfathomed spiral is ultraviolet crest of Saturn’s delight Poor Baphomet soon to be found out soon to be sipped from chalace of Winter all-knowing all-becoming elliptical wraith of autoimmune deficiency in tired penguin heart of tongue lashed out of dangling moving toward me unsteadily antiquity is balm of sanity in otherwise less atrocious veneer,” Mckinley spews at his mother.

Through the glass come John and Larry. Larry has a fireplace poker in one hand, which was used to penetrate the orifice of home and John has simply a handgun and an assortment of rosery beads. Maybe a knife would be better or a steel baton? What if you leaked out your serendipity with a poor salt-lick?

A murti make better for me. Tongue out the closet it’s coming out of Todd’s ears. Hey you, why don’t you strangle yourself with the umbilical cord you rode your way in on? And furthermore, I could really care LESS what your saddled tramp has to say about last nights obeisances. FUCK your maltodextrin. Fuck all things unbecoming of a man such as yourself! Surely there’s something better than this in the afterlife because tomorrow is oh forget me not I’ve soiled myself.

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Pallindrilica is the one world government which rules in 2033. The fires of Shiva scorch from such a height.. But not even his flame can cleanse the totality of the unrighteous. Ol’ Ed White knew all along. Have your thoughts ever raced to such an extent that they reduced themselves to a derailed train of ultraspeed translight? They jumble and misform to such an extent that they usher in the hissing and the guttural intonations of what one would only liken unto that of a demon? The Jinn speak to us at this point. They wish to break through from the other side, to usurp our lives, our forms – because it’s just so fucking awful back there. Some try to help, yes. Some are psychotic beyond the point of recognition. Do you believe in possession? The manifold nature of unbecoming. You are not always your thoughts. Beware and don’t respond.

(author’s note: This is similar to the conflict between First and Third World. Upper class and the impoverished.)

“It is true that some of us equate nature with hierarchy. The interlopers, the eugenicists.”

“Cut with the silver blade of titanium I insulfate the antiquity of all lifeforms. Relapse is key to climate. I’ll trim what I can’t become and I’ll become trident.”

“What’s next?” He asks. “Calm yourself and think in terms of the chalace.” She responds.

And so he drank. He drank and drank and drank. And then he laughed. And then he defaced sacred objects, he spewed, and he fought. And then he laughed. And then he talked shit. And then he was agonized once more. He looked down at himself and saw pinwheels and obelisks. These are not your typical innocuous spores. Like dipping your hand in a public toilet. Like Hiroshima, leaving your child trapped beneath burning refuse and watching your husband die of radiation poisoning. The doctors attempt a blood test and he never stops bleeding because he has no white blood cells. “I am become Death. Destroyer of Worlds.” Like black rain. Like the war being over and celebration. Like an experiment for total destruction, no new way of life.

You must struggle to survive, that is your one fore-ordained purpose. How well you achieve it will afford you a mission from God laced with the “ability” to save others or the world. And that will be the pitfall. And it will be a long, long way up from there. There’s only falling up. Gravity releases and you float off to the heavens – but don’t float to high. Half of you will never return.

Like brain damage.

A black cat’s eyes in the dark reflected upon by a computer monitor slightly aschew from her. An innocent mew. Sudden calm.