Since the late '90s, Australian multi-instrumentalist Oren Ambarchi has made drone metal and free jazz, sculpted ambient soundscapes and teamed up with many (if not most) of experimental music's greatest names. Over his productive profession, Ambarchi has visited with Sunn O))), played with Boris and Merzbow, drummed with Keiji Haino—and that is only a pittance. From multiple points of view, Ambarchi is a quintessential artist's performer: a capable drummer and guitarist, gigantically regarded inside his own scene, whose fans concentrate his work like stoned math majors pouring over a Mandelbrot set. Regardless of whether propelled by krautrock, metal, or jazz, Ambarchi's work requests tolerance and consideration, yet alongside his solitary musicianship, Ambarchi's work goes after the extremes of human experience, the sad, the brilliant. On his most recent album, the three-section, forty-minute Hubris, Ambarchi collaborates with a multitude of vanguard performers, among them Jim O'Rourke, Crys Cole, Keith Fullerton Whitman, Mark Fell, and Ricardo Villalobos. O'Rourke is an incessant teammate with Ambarchi (together the two made 2011's Indeed and a year ago's Behold) and his nearness is felt all through the record. Both artists are specialists at keeping into furrows, then softening out of them up peculiar, unfathomable ways. On "Hubris Pt. 1," Ambarchi sets out an arpeggiated guitar circle which fills in as a benchmark for his colleagues to play off and the track's 22-minute runtime gives an adequate canvas. As per Ambarchi, the creation was roused by New Wave and disco—especially Wang Chung's soundtrack to the 1985 thriller To Live and Die in L.A.— however its sound and structure owe much to the patient circles of negligible techno. Similarly as with a few types of reflection, where specialists are instructed to concentrate on unpretentious contrasts in the body's impression of the world, Ambarchi and his accomplices bring swells that swell into waves. While it's difficult to parse who is dependable which sounds, O'Rourke's guitar-synth emerges, bringing out retro illustrations, John Carpenter soundtracks, and William Friedkin thrillers. Like the Field, Ambarchi's circles impart a feeling of ponder with their unflagging force, however while Axel Willner has a propensity toward huge crescendos, "Pt. 1" stays established. Pressure is uplifted, however there's just a little discharge, only a blurring sense that something wonderful is gone. "Pt. 3," which incorporates commitments from Villalobos and DNA's Arto Lindsay, is an alternate kind of mammoth—as unhinged and electric as anything Ambarchi has recorded. Villalobos, a godhead in the negligible techno field, once examined a little part of Christian Vander's "Baba Yaga La Sorciere," transforming it into 17 minutes of cadenced delight. Additionally, Villalobos, alongside drummers Joe Talia and Will Guthrie, convey a circularity to "Pt. 3," with Lindsay's guitar adding a no wave edge to the funk-prog undercurrent. Likewise, Villalobos, alongside drummers Joe Talia and Will Guthrie, convey a comparable circularity to "Pt. 3," with Lindsay's guitar adding a no wave edge to the funk-prog undercurrent. Dissimilar to "Pt. 1," which remains inside set limits, "Section 3" sheds formal limitations joyously. When for Ambarchi's guitars join Lindsay's, the track has turned into a maximalist tropical storm of unusual. Taken from a separation, Hubris is formed something like a hourglass, with "Pt. 2" filling in as a connector between the two parts. Quiet guitar and examined voices fill in as a respect to Albert Marcoeur, a French craftsmanship rocker known for inspecting nursery rhymes, paints a peaceful picture. The track fills in as a palette chemical between the ethereal energy of "Pt. 1" and the tumult of "Pt. 3." It additionally returns a focus on Ambarchi's guitar, which is apparently what he is most renowned for. In some ways "Pt. 2" is a synecdoche for Ambarchi himself. Couple of specialists could amass a gathering of artists like that those found on Hubris by any means, however Ambarchi lets everybody do their part, then blur away from plain sight. It's the contrast amongst hubris and vision. Listen the full album below : 01. Oren Ambarchi - Hubris, Pt. 1 02. Oren Ambarchi - Hubris, Pt. 2 02. Oren Ambarchi - Hubris, Pt. 3
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Sixty-five minutes of highly melodic, superbly arranged, precisely mixed, texturally varied electronic music that sounds like it could have come from no other artist. Syro absorbs many different sounds, from loping breakbeat to drum’n’bass to techno proper to hints of disco, but it has a way of making other genres seem like they exist to serve this particular vision. Syro it's another collection of new music recorded over the most recent couple of years, and it's said to be the first of additional to come. Dissimilar to MBV, it isn't so much that James left totally—in 2005, he discharged a progression of Analord 12" EPs as AFX, and there were a few serene EPs as the Tuss. Be that as it may, with numerous monikered electronic artists, marking is everything: it's not an Aphex Twin discharge unless it's displayed as an Aphex Twin release. Syro feels really amazing. When the record beats energetically with "smaller than usual pops 67 [source field mix]", trademark Aphex atmospherics falling over jittering, fretful percussion, the audience is transported into an absolutely ethereal sonic space that could be built by no one other than James. All through its significant length (64 minutes), the collection investigates this space, controlling its shape and limits. As each track transforms, frequently indistinctly, into the following, it's hard to abstain from feeling a little disorientated. Endless subjects and themes continually move all through concentration, yet each solid is significant, put in precisely the correct corner of this exceptional, sparkling aural canvas. It can be dubious to keep up, to recall past entries after two or three the many sharp left turns that the record takes, yet it never truly feels like you miss anything. Every last snapshot of the record has enough profundity and detail to permit the audience to get totally – and enthusiastically – lost. There's little here that is completely new region for Aphex Twin; the beats crackle and writhe like a great part of the percussion on Drukqs (albeit nothing here is very as forceful as the any of that collection's more rough tracks), and the a portion of the more encompassing sections could without much of a stretch fit into some of his prior discharges. In any case, unmistakably Syro has not been made in entire confinement, shielded from the cutting edge electro world. A few entries are extremely Burial-esque, others gesture to Jon Hopkins. Obviously, these are makers whose yield incorporates heaps of Aphex-y thoughts, played around with and refreshed for more present day groups of onlookers – it's fascinating to see him give back where its due. Syro is a surprising album to examine in light of the fact that its general approach is not especially uncommon. More established enthusiasts of electronic music who took after alongside James' shape-moving in the 1990s may need to modify their desires somewhat. On the proof here, he has no enthusiasm for re-designing his sound. Syro has couple of extremes, no hyper-serious splatter-breaks or satanic "Come to Daddy" vocals or surges of commotion. On the flip side of the range, Syro doesn't cast James in a semi established light; there's no “serious composer” tracks like "4" or "Young lady/Boy Song" that ask to be masterminded string quartet. Also, there are no "Windowlicker"- like gestures to pop, no endeavors to pirate some really unusual music onto the graphs. The album’s formal effortlessness keeps the attention on the courses of action, particularly in the principal half. The ten-and-a-half-minute "XMAS_EVET10 [120][thanaton3 mix]" floats forward like a cover stone up cleaned ice, permitting another component—a tricky melodic curve, a stammering shift in the beat, a surprisingly bassy moan—to enter flawlessly in each bar. It's confounded however never occupied, horde parts adhering into a coherent entirety. "4 bit 9d api+e+6 [126.26]" blends quieted corrosive squelches with twinkly console songs, with scarcely there voices articulating a couple layers underneath, while the opening "minipops 67 [120.2][source field mix]" has silent singing displayed straight—the one new wrinkle on the collection—and it's so bare it's incapacitating. The collection gets a couple clicks harsher in spots, as on "CIRCLONT6A [141.98][syrobonkus mix]", with its emphatic bass granulate and rubbery computer game commotions, yet it never goes too far toward that path. The care and virtuosity with which these tracks were collected is promptly self-evident, yet nothing feels troublesome; the record's simple stream in spite of everything is one of its essential ideals, and there's something new to reveal with each tune in. As much as anything in Aphex Twin's back list, Syro is an unbelievably firm, immersive tune in. On the off chance that it doesn't exactly incorporate the same number of pivotal thoughts as some of his prior discharges, this (relative) absence of development is more than compensated for by the sheer nature of the music. In some ways, the more commonplace feel of this collection really upgrades the listening background – this genuinely is a record to get totally lost in, hesitant to develop for quite a long time. On rehashed tunes in, more layers get to be distinctly capable of being heard, more grabs of tune and magnificence getting through the thick, musical shade. The effect that this collection has may not be as progressive as that of Selected Ambient Works 85-92 or Windowlicker, yet it will positively communicate something specific over the universe of electronic music – Richard D. James is back, he's still totally untouchable. In 1976, composer Philip Glass and chief Robert Wilson executed a clever end-circled the mindful traditional music foundation of their day. After a short workshop and visit in Europe, the inventive accomplices chose that Einstein on the Beach at four-hour-also, non-account musical drama—was prepared for its American presentation. So they leased the Metropolitan Opera house for two evenings. It was more than a sold-out achievement. It was 10 years characterizing sensation in New York's aesthetic group. The concise run additionally set Glass and Wilson back almost $100,000. (Leasing the greatest opera house in the nation wasn't shabby.) In the prompt consequence of Einstein's American debut, Glass broadly backpedaled to driving his taxi. In any case, the apex of this current composer’s initial, bad-to-the-bone moderate time frame—which depended on sleepily long, hardcore minimalist period—would prompt to a noteworthy mark bargain after a short time. CBS Masterworks reissued Glass' autonomous studio recording of a large portion of the music from Einstein in 1979. Glass had abbreviated a few scenes for the primary LP issue—on the rationale that without Wilson's stage scenes, trims were prudent. In any case, everything that made the recording still snaps. The synths have a growl that is suitable, given the musical show's Downtown New York parentage. The enormous group riffs engine along at exciting beats; the "trial" scenes unfurl no sweat. The talked vocals create dull surrealism. (Look at the ridiculous syllabic layering in "Knee Play 2.") And the instrumental execution of the Philip Glass Ensemble—which included wind instruments and a little theme—is secured bizarre. Forty years on, this first recording of Einstein has never been bettered as a sound just ordeal experience of the opera. A blasting live execution from 1984 approaches; a '90s re-recording that reestablished the extracted music isn't anyplace as fiery or as enchanting. The main opponent approach to experience this cutting edge triumph includes doing as such with Wilson's stunning organizing included—something that is presently conceivable, because of a home-video adaptation of Einstein's latest restoration visit. Still, the inaugural Glass recording remains the perfect approach to put the tunes and rhythms into your ears. In the wake of reissuing Einstein, CBS Masterworks marked Glass to a selective contract as an entertainer. Over the next decade, Glass conveyed nine albums to the label: a pull that included two other stage pieces from his first musical drama set of three, a notorious solo piano set, and a few long-shape works for the arranger's home band. Those changeable sessions shape the center of The Complete Sony Recordings. (That title mirrors the ensuing corporate securing of CBS Records; stray Glass recordings for Sony that postdate his CBS years are additionally included.) This 24-CD box likewise offers a couple of select fancy odds and ends intended to allure authorities—some of which demonstrate impactful. Be that as it may, in a traditional commercial center stopped up with reissue sets, the key offering purpose of this one is its relevant thoroughness. Full lyrics, arrange activity synopses and different liner notes are given not simply to Einstein, but rather for each collection here. Above all, the crate's going with book gives key data on two of Glass' most critical sensational works: the Gandhi musical show Satyagraha and the antiquated Egyptian story Akhnaten—a piece that saw Glass composing for a traditional opera organization, interestingly. Despite the fact that it didn't quickly surprise the opera world in 1980, Satyagraha is presently acclaimed as-as one of Glass' points of reference. The commission permitted Glass to leave his different odd employments behind and to concentrate on creating full-time. He reacted with an authoritative score that performed Gandhi's opportunity in South Africa, and that additionally mirrored the scholar's more extensive voyage from newspaperman to lobbyist to political thinker. The second demonstration's climactic “Protest” has a galvanic drive, on account of Glass' unusual however blending union of string symphony and synthesizer. In the third demonstration, Satyagraha looks ahead to the consequent legacy of peaceful direct activity, as reached out to Martin Luther King, Jr. Glass' score closes with a rising song that, with its synchronous recommendation of weakness and assurance, makes for a standout amongst the most soul-blending minutes in contemporary opera. In a theoretical dramatic touch, the whole lyrics for Satyagraha is adjusted from the Bhagavad-Gita—the Sanskrit content of which makes a profound backup for the musical show's stage activity. To take after the story on a recording, English-talking gatherings of people need a track-by-track interpretation of the Sanskrit, and rundowns of every scene's dramatic particulars. Akhnaten works also, through numerous antiquated dialects. What's more, Einstein's snow squall of English parts is additionally better contemplated with a printed verse sheet. Earlier spending plan CD reissues of all the early Glass musical shows have disregarded this. Therefore, the little hardcover book included with The Complete Sony Recordings feels just as it's extremely valuable. An affectionately created reissue set of the opera set of three alone could have brought a high cost. (All things considered, those recordings involve ten of the CDs here.) But this container shrewdly extends its domain to incorporate everything in the mark's vaults—including shorter, oft-overlooked showy works like The Photographer. Therefore, this set permits audience members to re-experience the time of Glass' ascent to a place of popular culture noticeable quality. While Glass was regularly delicate to the possibility that he was double-crossing his established preparing by turn into a "hybrid" craftsman, the Sony recordings do reveal insight into his interest with the way extraordinary groups of onlookers may retain contemporary structure. His first collection under the select contract with CBS, 1982's Glassworks, was a deliberately downsized take a gander at his tasteful. Rather than displaying various hours of his steadily transforming subjects, the suite of six minimal pieces plays in just shy of 40 minutes. The standard blend is maybe the most understood and pervasive of every one of his recordings. Be that as it may, since 1982 was likewise the time of the Walkman, Glass and his sound architect made a rendition of Glassworks "uniquely blended for your own tape player." The incorporation of the "tape blend" in this crate denote its first advanced discharge. Overflowing with low-end pound and a punchy, less-isolated stereo sound, this reward blend of Glassworks overwhelms the more refined, natural adaptation. Here, the collection's first passionate swing—from the contemplative "Opening" to the automated walk of "Floe"— registers much more fabulously. Superior to some other CD in the Sony box, it comes nearest to speaking to the intense live solid of the Philip Glass Ensemble, when intensified in an extensive setting. (This blend of Glassworks additionally prefigures the system of contemporary traditional engravings like New Amsterdam, which work to deliver recordings in ways that will engage a wide range of audience members.) Not each investigation from this period paid off. Songs from the Trilogy was a valuable assemblage, back when recordings of Glass' initial operas spoke to a more generous physical-media venture. Presently it's an anomaly. Also, Songs from Liquid Days is a bizarre discharge failure. Its symphonious movements and outfit rhythms appear to be reliably estranged from the pop-melody verses (composed, differently, by David Byrne, Laurie Anderson, Paul Simon and Suzanne Vega). What's more, the vocal exhibitions—by the Roches, Linda Ronstadt and the lead from the cast of Satyagraha—frequently stable similarly unverifiable of the fitting surface to seek after. Still, it's a captivating take a gander at an author with a long corporate chain, and a readiness to play around. More effective are albums for Glass’ ensemble, initially appointed as scores for dance exhibitions. These incorporate the miniatures found on DancePieces and the lavish, side-length proclamations on Dance Nos. 1-5. Furthermore, the arranger's famous notoriety hit another level with the arrival of Solo Piano—still a standout amongst the most intensely cherished passages in his endless list. This record gave fans a private experience with Glass' performance instrumental style, and furthermore offered debuts of significant pieces like "Transformation" and "Wichita Sutra Vortex." The previous is a piece that has been appreciated and performed by Blood Orange. The last is a work that numerous first class established virtuosos neglect to pull off with extravagance of the all the more actually constrained Glass. In 1993, Glass hopped from CBS/Sony to Nonesuch—a mark that he'd been sneaking film soundtracks to, as an afterthought, for quite a while. A little while later, Glass would build up his own particular engraving, Orange Mountain Music (which remains the place to locate his modern orchestral arrangements, musical shows and symphonic explanations). In any case, Sony has additionally remained in the Glass business, all over. It recorded Itaipu/The Canyon—one of Glass' initial attacks into instrumental written work for its own particular purpose—in 1993. (Glass would rapidly surpass this exertion with a few later ensembles.) Thanks to the name's relationship with Yo-Yo Ma, this container gets the chance to case Glass' fine soundtrack to Naqoyqatsi (on which the cellist performs). Sony likewise has the rights to Passages, Glass' 1990 gathering with Ravi Shankar, his onetime coach. On that collection, every author organized subjects by the other. Not everything there falls off flawlessly, but rather it's an impact to hear Shankar's adjustment of Glassian song. The crate additionally accumulates darken sets like Organ Works—a fascinating arrangement of Glass courses of action, performed by Donald Joyce. There's additionally a rarities accumulation titled Recent Recordings. It's a fun tune in, regardless of the possibility that it contains a few recordings that aren't too later. (A short Glass Ensemble execution at the 1984 Olympics burn lighting function? Without a doubt, we should have it!) Beside the dark "tape blend" of Glassworks, be that as it may, the elite material promoted on the bundling doesn't have much to do with the genuine estimation of this container. The genuine fascination is the half of the set that sits in the magnificent to-notable zone of Glass' list. A great deal of that material has been generally accessible for quite a long time—however regularly without vital relevant material that can help further drenching. This respectful, shrewdly delivered set fixes that issue. In doing as such, The Complete Sony Recordings speaks to a commendable fulfillment of the organization's unique interest in a youthful composer. The sense of control Margaret Chardiet wields over her nasty, fire-breathing music provides a sense of structure that makes this very out-there music easy to grasp for those outside of noise music circles. Her work is marked by a push-and-push-harder tension between pummeling rhythms, swaths of power-electronics static, and her impressive, chilling howl. Around this time last year, Margaret Chardiet almost died. Days before the noise artist was supposed to go on her first European tour, doctors discovered a cyst so large it almost brought on organ failure. The subsequent surgery and healing process was long and intense. During the weeks of bed rest, a dying man lay next to her in the hospital, crying out for his daughter to join his side. For whatever reason, she never showed up. In the rearview, Chardiet’s situation sounds like hell, and so does her latest album as Pharmakon, Bestial Burden. In a recent interview with Pitchfork, she described the theme of her second LP for Brooklyn-based label Sacred Bones as “[a] desire to show the body as a lump of flesh and cells that mutate and fail you and betray you—this very banal, unimportant, grotesque aspect of ourselves.” It’s a grim focus on the corporeal, a lens that Chardiet has projected her nightmarish music through before; on last year’s Abandon, the roaring final track was gruesomely titled “Crawling on Bruised Knees”, the cover art a shot of Chardiet’s lower torso covered in maggots. On the cover of Bestial Burden, she literally turns the inside outwards, with grisly-looking butcher’s-shop organs placed accordingly on her upper torso and chicken talons glued to her fingers. Musically, Bestial Burden is a considerable step forwards for Chardiet, a feat that’s more impressive when considering that the genre she works in doesn’t necessarily call for artistic growth. Before releasing Abandon, Chardiet established her presence with a run of small-press releases similar to many noise musicians past and present, so that record wasn’t so much her debut as it was an introduction to a somewhat wider audience. If the depth-charge blasts of Abandon showcased an exciting emerging voice in experimental music, Bestial Burden elevates Chardiet to an even more accomplished plane. The sense of control that she wields over this nasty, fire-breathing music—a push-and-push-harder tension between pummeling rhythms, swaths of power-electronics static, and her impressive, chilling howl—provides a sense of structure that makes this very out-there music easy to grasp for those outside of noise music circles. Still, chaos reigns on Bestial Burden, an album that sounds like anything but a safe space to inhabit. Chardiet’s steadier focus on rhythm provides a sound structure nonetheless annihilated by jet-engine roars, bursts of mechanical heat, and ear-bleeding screeches. Paradoxically, the harshest and most alienating moments on Bestial Burden arrive when the record is at its quietest: album opener “Vacuum” practically serves as a portal into the record’s landscape, as Chardiet’s vocal hyperventilation is backed by a undulating fuzzy drone that rubs against the ears like a drill to the teeth. “Primitive Struggle” lays wet, heaving coughs over a heartbeat-like rhythm that eventually grows to an insistent thud, bleeding beautifully into the death-march stomp of “Autoimmune”. By turning the human body’s failures into rhythmic tools at her disposal, Chardiet has created the truest form of body horror. Fittingly, her voice is the album's most expressive instrument, at times recalling black metal’s pitchless burn. While her vocal approach on Abandon came across as sprawling and freeform in its presentation, Chardiet takes the shape of a menacing furnace on Bestial Burden, giving off blasts of heat and steam that are deeply felt even as they recede into the darkness. In the aforementioned interview, Chardiet groused about the reception her difficult music receives: “When I put that out to someone and the only thing they can say is, ‘Oh look, it’s a girl screaming,’ I want to fucking kill them because I’m literally pouring my heart and soul out, being so vulnerable.” On Bestial Burden, her voice casts jagged, threatening shadows, but on a record that concerns itself with bodily disintegration, Chardiet’s forcefulness is a necessary human constant. Her most surprising performance arrives on the album’s closing title track, seven minutes of pulsing tones that culminates in tangled noise and mutated vocal strangulation. Before “Bestial Burden”’s satisfyingly destructive conclusion, though, Chardiet expresses herself in a way that stands apart from the rest of the six-track record; her voice sways and swerves with disorienting clarity, sounding almost psychedelic with every half-spoken dispatch. Chardiet has played it straight previously when it comes to her vocals--her cover of “Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down)”, featured on Sacred Bones’ 2013 compilation Todo Muere Vol 4, was surprisingly faithful to the original—but the wavy, near-meditative form of “Bestial Burden” is, at least for those who just arrived to the Pharmakon party a year ago, unexplored territory. As a whole, Bestial Burden highlights Chardiet’s ability to re-draw the boundaries of her own artistic approach, ripping out its guts and creating something new out of the decaying remains. by Andy O'Connor It’s strange to think that the collaboration between Maryland grindcore band Full of Hell and Japanese noise legend Merzbow had its roots in a t-shirt. In the design, Full of Hell appropriated the album art of Merzbow’s 1996 album Pulse Demon, a pulsing visual that works as a testament to the hypnotic waves of that collection. Depending on your opinion of Full of Hell, you’d either call it a tribute or a ripoff. Either way, rarely do shirts lead to actual collaboration, something that came about here when the band met Balázs Pándi—who’s served as Merzbow’s drummer as of late—while on tour in Europe. Combining noise and metal is a worthwhile pursuit, with groups like Portland’s Knelt Rote and Toronto’s Column of Heaven synthesizing noise’s freer destruction with metal’s more structured attack. In fact, both genres seems to be reversing roles—many of the more critically acclaimed noise records, like Wolf Eyes’ 2004 breakout Burned Mind and Pharmakon’s Bestial Burden, are praised for incorporating structure, while the more extreme ends of black and death metal are rapidly becoming looser and more feral. (Impetuous Ritual’s Unholy Congregation Of Hypocritical Ambivalence, from earlier in the year, is a prime example.) Merzbow is no stranger to metal, having released several albums with Boris, contributed to two songs on Sunn O)))’s Flight of the Behemoth, and has cited death metal as influence on 1994’s Venereology, released through the since-shuttered Relapse sub-label Release Entertainment. This collaboration, however, is frustrating because it falls short of its goals, in part due to Merzbow’s too-reduced role and that Full of Hell don’t make up for the missing space. "Burst Synapse" begins with a quick rush of powerviolence, an even quicker patch of Merzbow’s static, then continues to be dominated by Full of Hell’s rote playing. "Gordian Knot" and "Humming Miter" offend more in this matter, where Merzbow feels squandered. He doesn’t get to show any of his strengths. Full of Hell are one of those bands that can get people moshing in clubs, but can’t capture that intensity in the studio, and it’s more than obvious here. Merzbow isn’t quite able to bolster their riffs, unlike in Rock Dream, where he helps make Boris’ riffs grand and ecstatic. For his reputation as the antithesis of music, Merzbow has a strong command of rhythm, and if Full of Hell are gonna use Demon's art to gas up their van, they should have embraced that record’s dynamics, not simply its textures. Some potential arises toward the album’s conclusion, where Merzbow begins to sync with Full of Hell. The blastbeats of "Mute" feel more unhinged thanks to his noise, for once, overcoming the guitar. "High Fells" sees Full of Hell dooming out, and in the process, giving Merzbow more room to cast a wide shadow. There’s even saxophone on here, and in closer "Fawn Heads and Unjoy", which is not only a nod to Merzbow’s love of free jazz, but also lends unpredictability. Full of Hell restrain themselves even more on "Ludjet Av Gud", dominated by booming floor toms and drifting noise undercurrents. (Some editions of the album come with Sister Fawn, a bonus disc of outtakes. They’re long jams of noise and drums, and even if they don’t form a cohesive whole, they’re a much more satisfying listen than the actual record.) In the end here, Merzbow feels more like a over-hyped, under-trotted guest. It doesn’t even have the muster to serve as a compelling entryway for hardcore kids to get into noise. (As great as Demon and Venereology are, they may be a bit overwhelming for novices; Merzbow’s collaborations with Boris would be smoother introductions.) In an interview with the Quietus last year, Merzbow mentioned a forthcoming, more grindcore-oriented record called Merzgrind. Maybe there, we’ll find the emancipating fury that's lacking in this Full of Hell collaboration. |
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