The world of inner absorption and reverie; the birth of imagination; illusions, dreams etc.; self-criticism, scruples; the over-assertion of individuality; a strong tendency to imitation; the assumption of dramatic poses; roles, affectation; folly, absurdities, freakishness; new speech consciousness; intense fluctuations in energy and emotional and intellectual plasticity; symptoms of hysteria and insanity; prone to religious conversion and other violent personality changes.
Is computer broken? No. Is material being broken? Yes, Maybe. Is sound broken? Yes, Certainly. Bashed hard drive broken? Yes. Computer, systems, effects. Brkn state snd, v. crude. Num #3 in series of 3
Is computer broken? No. Is material being broken? Yes, Maybe. Is sound broken? Yes, Certainly. Bashed hard drive broken? Yes. Computer, systems, effects. Brkn state snd, v. crude. Num #2 in series of 3.
Is computer broken? No. Is material being broken? Yes, Maybe. Is sound broken? Yes, Certainly. Bashed hard drive broken? Yes. Computer, systems, effects. Brkn state snd, v. crude. Num #1 in series of 3.
Towers of smoke and bliss, blown out amplifier blues and storm drone floating somewhere above Glen Eden, Auckland and bought down captive in technicolour mono. Sean O’Reilly and Alan Holt have been troubling the boundaries of New Zealand’s free-rock-agitation scene for nigh on 30 years as members of groups like King Loser, Sferic Experiment and White Saucer. ‘Rash Chemistry’ is a delivery of two sides of thick prime cut steak – medicated guitar and synth oozings, drum machine and brawn, with some of that unmistakable Kiwi-sound. Nuclear powered music from the nuclear-free zone, grip it in your maw and chew it down.
Radio silence and noise across coded networks. Signals from demilitarised spaces. Imagine a prison camp complex that covers the world landmass – each block a nation enslaved. No yard time, all radios tuned to special frequencies. This is the crumbling of the ego and the id, a vast hive experience. Out of the taps, a thick black paste. Behind the bars nothing alive, great wastelands, tundra, plains.
Limited CDR with digital download, £4 postage paid world.
Are you there, is this what you envisioned? What you heard? Have you a meaning? A path? Is there an instability in your atoms? Is there a disorder you have not recorded? Where do you rest at night? One thousand questions and no answer. Thermal fading and a billion dynasties fall. This is entropy. Exit all systems.
Limited run CDR with digital download. £4 postage paid world.
Months before this mighty Brexit mess, an seaward storm threatened to rip Scotland asunder from the British Isles. By a stroke of luck, it also uplifted and dropped the Argentinian sound shaper Anla Courtis (Reynols) straight into Edinburgh where like a modern day Dorothy he crashed into the Oz-like studio of Grant Smith (Muscletusk). Strange times indeed. Waddaya do when a hurricane drops in? Grab the microphones, call up the crew, hit the button and buckle up. Joined by Fraser Burnett (Fordell Research Unit), Malcy Duff and Ali Robertson (Usurper), this is a case of a lotta hands make delicate work. Two sides with field recordings, employing sounds of the aforementioned ‘Hurricane’ Gertrude (winds, storm) and a even a dishwasher rinse cycle. There’s also the gentle thrum of man-made interventions, spirit voices, glooped out improvisation and squalled moments inside the eye of the storm – all schemed out over a vegetarian buffet at Kalpna’s curry restaurant. This music is a beautiful meditation on the elements, a refraction of light, air and water all at once.
Limited C30 cassette with digital download and ‘team photo’. £5 Postage Paid world
The Cardboard Prince meets the Swamp Doge in a beachside car park, handing over a recording of gassy rattle n’ roll with skull vision song. Mouth Worker, in turn man-handles this grim gift, bleaching all in heavy acid and viral sickness music. In the meantime, Robert R-S has been grafting his own bones to a Mouth Worker corpse, building an unfathomable jelly-like thing that spews forth, audible and warped. Suffocating heat, and spaceless-abyss. The thing sees its own shadow.
Limited CDR with digital download. £4 Postage Paid World
Pulse and thud, troubled loop technologies held up with groggy anticipation. A kind of sickness music, separated from the social mass. Herein lies the crux – bleak synthesis or a bright new world? There is no one what will take care of you. There is no one.
Limited CDR with digital download. £4 Postage Paid World.
Who is Yol? Nobody i’ve spoken to knows if the guy even has a regular-Joe name, some grainy YouTube video exists but don’t give no game away on the identity stakes – only steeps the man in a further smog of the unknowable. Not that such earthy concerns are really important now. What kind of world does a guy clamber out of when the universe has provided an inverted moral order anyhow? It’s not surprising since the conditions are already there for this kind of music to be birthed. Some less hearty folk might call this kind of music deeply disturbed, but frankly it’s a puzzle that makes perfect sense in the chill light of day. Yol infests speech and sound with a plague-like bubonic mass that explodes spores into the atmosphere – choking, thick and weird, just like we like it. We know you will too.
CDR with digital download code. £4 Postage Paid World
The internal animal, deranged and let loose in the social sphere. The body politic corrupted in flesh. Exit/No-Exit, permanent crisis and failure – Der Untergang des Abendlandes. New computer music for insane times.
CDR with digital download code. £4 postage paid world.
“You have been invited to a party at the home of an acquaintance. When you arrive at the party you notice that you and your companion have virtually nothing in common with the other people there. They dress differently, speak differently and listen to a different kind of music.”
Discotheque or oubliette, what is the difference? Sub-organism electronic funk. Limited edition CDR with digital download on purchase. £4 Postage Paid world.
According to her partisans, she has bayonet scars on her face and body and a jaw injury due to the stroke of a butt of a rifle. She lived for a while by the sale of emeralds sewed into her clothes. She had a child that was later place in an asylum. Because of her disfigurement she became discouraged and threw herself into the river. She was locked up for two years in a room with forty mental patients. Creeping music covered in a plaster cast, alternative history and future events. Edition of 15.
Two sides of free-minded guitar rapture from the irrepressible duo of Robin Foster and Henry Collins. These guys have been best known of late for their collaborative ‘rummaging’ practice (see here) or the Fluxus inspired skank-mayhem performances under the name Tippex. Here they drip into two solo tracks (no doubt a psychic collaboration) of ax-welding improvisation, feedback and body blistering out’n’out crunk. Gripping to say the least, and the sort of sounds that’ll wobble your teeth loose and set your jaw aside. Book your dentist now. CDR with digital download code.
Oh man, imagine bringing down the entire planetary mass of the solar system in one fell swoop, the acceleration of particle forms into an indivisible singularity and oneness. all creation rendered sound. Bend it all, slow it down, drain it out. Joined By Wire is Stephen Woolley and some hep session allstars playing their hand at this very thing. Two tracks of molasses thick drone excursions and edge of universe noise and freedom. Play it loud and twist the ether, great to have him back in the LF fold with this killer CDR. HEAVY.
Panelak is Leeds own shining knight/light Pascal Ansell, the young purveyor of some of the best north-of-the-mind improv/noise/freakzone moves of recent years. Sometime free-skronk nudist and Termite Club revivalist. ‘The Om Tragichord’ turns up the din one thousand percent, with ruinous cut-n-paste jamming and some of the smartest ‘noise’ I’ve had ringing my ears for some time. Synths, pedals, guitar, chunks of field recorded madness and other gelatinous gloop out every orifice. Strange vibrations. CDR, 26 minutes, Art by Emi Ueno Neilson & Pascal Ansell.
Metabolic slowdown with the approach of winter, frozen oceans experience rapid temperature changes causing the immediate destruction of plant forms and chemical structures. Ambient music as the depletion of oxygen reserves to the central lobe, and the escape of atmospheric pressure in the white of winter. Deep snow strategies in sound. Hand sprayed CDR.
Seth Cooke returns to the fold, worshipping the glitch via 3D printer and Infinite Jukebox. “Eternal World Engines of the Demiurge is a twenty minute quick & dirty blast of Jack Kirby tribute, evocation of thoughts and sensations accompanying childhood sleep paralysis and continuation of my interest in botched modelling.
Infinite Jukebox was designed by Paul Lomere. It endlessly extends and reconfigures MP3s by calculating probabilistic routes through the sound file based on pitch, timbre and metric position. A 3D printer eternally misprints a glitched universe. A corrupt MP3 sings gibberish forever.” – Seth Cooke.
More synth disco-hussle from the vaporous Sixteen Fingers. Includes nembutal haze cover of Womack and Womack’s ‘Teardrops’ among the general vibe of falling through the cracks of time/space into the black gluey wormhole. Future music or past? Crude art, limited edition CDR.
Wowzers! 24th century technoid jams from Brisbane, Australia duo Club Sound Witches. Guys came to our intention through several bewildering CDR’s on the very fine Breakdance The Dawn label, gotta say I was instantly hooked to their otherworld vibes. ‘Revolutionary Spray’ is two sides of crude but clever electronic pulse and patter with minimal keyboard lines and whispered wraith-vox summoning’s. Deep funk inside the void with a queasy-rhythm dream soundtrack. This is an instant antidote to much of the machismo ‘noise-techno’ doing the rounds nowadays, will leave you nodding your head and shuffling your feet with none of the associated brain damage of the genre.
Club Sound Witches are Nicola Morton (Bad Intentions, Offerings) and Matt Earle (xNoBBQx, Breakdance The Dawn honcho). Limited cassette with troublingly unheimlich cover-art. C40.
Electro-static computer music and psychological shock syndrome. Entrenched moral corruption under stone-aged algorithms. When you decide that the future is not enough, the thing that calls back your name is the greasy murk of the splintered world. Snap, crackle and slop. Limited CDR.
Number Mask is the first long player format from Hagman, the Leeds based pairing of Daniel Thomas and David Thomas (no relation) who have been aptly described by Rob Hayler (Radio Free Midwich) as “scene-leaders in crescendo management and deep, heavy electronics”. Number Mask sure fits the bill nicely – with molasses thick primitive synthesis and lysergic dronewerk. It’s a jerk of thump and pulse, power-electronics in the sense of hefty head-zone, minus panto fist-pumping antics. Number Mask is the mutant child of classic German analogue synth experiments and 90’s NZ free drone stylings – a dark and rich meat indeed. Fill your boots.
Hand sprayed limited CDR with cover art by Daniel Thomas.
TX Ogre is one Henry Collins, a musical stuntman with a long lineage of gravity defying/berserker acts from the gooner-gabba rave of DJ Shitmat, modal-ambient funk zones as Kylar and other impossibly monikered outfits waaay beyond. It’s great to have Henry join the LF crew for this 20 minute mini-CDR of what can be best described as ‘hyper rhythm drum machine free-jazz’. Here we have a machine-code Milford Graves, ripping Han Bennick a new operating system. What the hell is this? The man/machine interface is a possessed creature that requires deft handling, but Henry has hands of velvet when it comes to this kind of thing. In his words “I hit keys and drum pads whilst imagining i was possessed by a beast from the east.” – too humble methinks, here he’s wrestling with a cacodaemon, reforming it to the nymphlike sublime – a 27th century jazz for a frozen and gone world.
17 artist compilation cassette of modern computer composition documented on old-time magnetic tape. File under computer noise, drone, static, composition, weird, no ‘beatz’! Featuring Adam Denton, Anla Courtis, Astral Social Club, Autotistic, Clay Wilson, Dan Bennett, dsic, Ian Watson, Jeremy C. Baguyos, Martins Rokis, Maurice’s Hotel Death, Oliver Kohll, Phil Julian, Seth Cooke, Synek, The Zero Map, TX Ogre.
Mini-CDR of barely describable super-chromosome electronics by visual artist and musician Robert Ridley-Shackleton. Robert’s music, much like his art inhabits a dread-zone of psychological unease and refracted swamp-vision. Nothing here is what it seems – sound is traced like a stone-aged petroglyph, a chasm of electronic frequencies and crypt scraping madness. This one is wreathed in golden-grey cremation smoke straight from Kali’s windpipe. I’ve gotta say, I was bewildered on first listen… many, many repeats later, I’m still not sure I’ve solved the riddle – in fact, the more you take it in, the more frightening it becomes, risky business.
If you stare too far into the distance, you’ll only see the curvature of the universe in the carbon copy of the back of your own head. Sixteen Fingers is the echo chamber of this no-good place. Synth movements in alabaster and latex, creeping in over the flickering broadcast news. Long distant wars with oil-fields aflame and images projected on the city walls. We broke the transmission you know? took down the towers, killed the guards, left to backwoods areas. I don’t think this is music any more, it’s the underworld, the place of glooms.
Second ever live gig by psychic avenger duo Non-Ferric Memories. 100% witching hour sounds birthed deep in the basement of Joey Chainsaw (RIP). Dank weird unit out of Swindon no less who are totally aware of the lay-line configuration of Wiltshire and have been known to cause said energy foci to bend at will. I saw the temporal shift myself when they hit Bristol one sultry evening (see LF015), causing the architecture of the pub to melt at the same frequency as their cackled howls. They’ll move you in degrees of decades forward or backwards in space/time, pretty much obliterating all reason and logic in the search for the parallel tongue.
While I wasn’t there when this was put to the magnetic, one participant of the evening (by all account you couldn’t help but participate) called it a ‘marriage ceremony of spite and seduction’. The disconnected TV in the corner of the basement was said to have come alive mid-gig with ‘some crude & grainy images transmitted from the local mortuary and the Wetherspoons next door’. Post-gig, observers reported a spinning disc in the sky above the town, repeated sightings of a ghostly amnesiac and an un-attributable fugue lasting for days. Like I said, I wasn’t there, but I can vouch that this cdr will give yer telepathic transportation to these savage and foreign lands and alter your bodily crystalline structure for the duration.
Oh. Memories of that night now etch-o-sketched on my grey matter and then pressed direct from my human slime onto cdr. That was a real steamer and stinker of a summer evening, poor AC combined with nervous sweats + four units from the South-West crammed into The Croft front room = mass attrition. Joinedbywire wrestle drones and voices into a slamming chemical/toxic mixture unfit for rat consumption but essential for human wellbeing. Non-Ferric Memories conjure a lovechild of Max Ernst & Mad Magazine, an unaccountably ODDBALL psyche-world of mutant fold-ins. Little Creature as hoodlum priest & opera star lost in a shifting/howling swamp world. Skjølbat try to cool the average room temperature with alchemical string and metal improv only to turn the whole crew into joyful mercury puddles.
A righteous and right-on evening documented via two hand-sprayed cdr’s in a mini DVD case with full colour punked art.
Fleshy chunks of the finest stew cooked up by a couple of my favourite droogs in UK noise today. Betty works four movements of emotional distress and hypno warble that instantly makes you motion-sick as fuck. Everything is bent backwards, slipping forwards and moving via 6 dimensions instantaneously. Little Creature drops a solvent abusers wet dream – i.e. something that makes life worth living a day longer while you sit in heavy rainfall in a fetid alleyway hovel (stinking of piss, cause you’ve soiled yourself). The Creature side is also complete with some downer songwriting styles.
Menschenfleisch in duo action live crowd-sourced bootleg (@ The Croft in Bristol ‘warming punters’ for Emeralds & Pain Jerk). Hyper-low expectation fidelity. Who the fuck are Menschenfleisch? Accursed scum traders is what – dagger buddies, mongo escape artists and NOT musicians. These guys work latrines for a living and make sound to RELAX rather than pay the bills. Deep recession feelings best left alone. 3″ mini CDR.
Live recording of a really awesome max/msp workout by mysterious West-Country bod Garnett James. The beauty of G.J.s pieces is that they run equally hot at either loud or low from your home stereo system as the dynamics are knife-sharp. This album would probably fit under the ‘lowercase sound’ bracket back in the old days , but it’s something much better than that genre suggests – full of microprocessed offworld drone, disabled industrial cutups and blasts of computer noise it’s a total winner. Sounds to me like INA-GRM taken over by a host of arachnids – yeah, that much menace and whatthehell?.
Thought you had a grip on the whole New Zealand free noise/drone/freak scene? You best think again. Duncan Bruce (aka Rahmane) has been a shadowy figure on this edge-of-the-world noise steppe for the past decade. He’s hit downtime with the likes of Armpit, skronked heavy with Crude and layed down solo sax dervish rotations that have split skulls and flayed the skin offa legions of hornless infidels. Recordings are tough to track (Bruce has previous releases on Veglia and Freedom From), but New Glass Tapu is a fresh divination from the depths – 9 tracks of free jizz and radiation burn in the form of reed scouring feedback, decomposed electronics, piano blindness and astral drone. Sounds like some deep long lost 60’s freakout document recorded in the Rif and buried in a stale veil of opium/djinn haze. As with the best produce from these antipodes, this sounds a trillion miles out-there.
The cdr features team-ups between Bruce and talents of Clayton ‘CJA’ Noone (Armpit, The Futurians), Tim Cornelius (Sandoz Lab Technicians) and Lee Noyes (Wolfskull/Behemothaur) I’m ultra-excited to be releasing this cut of love from the man, it’s an ecstatic joy and hopefully fills in some more gaps in the labyrinthine story of the modern NZ sound thing.
100 copies, clamshell pack with shattered Glass Tapu art on cdr face.
Shit man, this is Love City. L-O-V-E. Wretched drones formed from nebula slaughter in the form of tonal clipping and hazy electronics. A strange mixture of composed overtones and freedom power-processing. This one has been a long time coming, full length and full of smoke and mirrors. Sits halfway between punk noise and soporific badtime ambient. Features some M.O.R. rock too… hand dyed/stamped cdr and baby-blue card cover. over 50 minutes of sound.