Woozy, glassine, Neu!-oid stagger, manufactured using Gameboy camera, drum machine, and cosmic love vibration. In centuries to come, archaeologists will find this disc beneath the rubble of what was Gainesville and exclaim "Damn. Some weird shit happened here."
Future howl from two atomic punks whose lo bit sinceritycore excites like little else happening at the moment. Probably tour-only, but see if they'll sell you one all the same, as this is some hot, hot lava, boss...
Scatological title notwithstanding, Stress' already deleted debut isn't really icky in the leastest. While the metropolis-burning-forever sensibility I associate with "wall noise" is very much in evidence herein, the bulk of this delightfully orange compact disc is actually a surprisingly varied affair, largely resembling an ethnographic field recording from someplace unimaginably pixelated and far away. Sometimes one hears bears, instruments, comedy. No noise outstays its welcome, tedium is noticeably absent. I will actually listen to this again.
all of the songs on this cd cause me to convulse until blood comes out of my eyes and i take the blood and i use it to draw intricate pictures on graph paper of things i remember from dreams.
traits, the first seed, black market, amphetamine virus, and scoundrill present steely helpings of no bullshit brokencore brutalism. this instrument inverts cold fusion. skymall are 9 armed deities playing pong in zero gravity. often, notaform, cacophony, and bottomfeedr whisperingly describe dystopias. realicide are the best thing to happen to music since the invention of yelling. a more perfectly curated compilation you could not possibly ask for.
for real, i was listening to this album in the car and i passed by a yard sale and i guess they were giving away husky puppies but it was so sunshining and nice outside that they decided to let the puppies out of the crate to play in the summertime grass and the puppies were roughhousing and having SUCH A FUN TIME and that's exactly what this cd is like, except the puppies are made from sinister medical equipment and it's raining poison gas and the yard sale is a jungle and fuck it, this cd is nothing at all like what i just said, tho i truly do believe delien may be the rubber pervert breakcore universe's answer to timbaland, and i think that's actually probably a whole lot deffer, all things considered...
as an avid prosumer of hardtek product, i can scarcely express how thrilling it is to encounter an item which satisfies my appetite for distorted percussion so utterly. consisting of a monolithic 74 minute beatdown, recorded in a single take by a real life kungfu master, thunder in the ground is a veritable BWOMP HISS banquet, the likes of which i've scarcely heard since speedy j stopped releasing interesting records. comes complete with a tersely worded manifesto, which you can utilize to improve various aspects of your life or you can ignore it entirely and just cool out to the heavy ass rhythms. it's your call, partner.
16 nanodissection masterclasses by one of north america's secret heroes of breakcore. shockingly futuristic rhythm construction engages genuinely unnerving italo-horror informed synthetics, resulting in a post-homosapien dreadscape guaranteed to give blissy shivers to anyone not capable of achieving orgasm without envisioning tongues stroking chitin. if heaven doesn't sound like this, i am totally refusing to go.
greyscale lockstep deadness magicks cast by a sorceror with exceptionally razory facebones. for serious holmes, you could cut a potato with those shits.
