Vinyl LP £15.49 HOS407LP
LP on Hospital Productions.
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CD £9.99 HOS407CD
CD on Hospital Productions.
It's taken me around six listens to get into this NY-dwelling, house-music-abusing miscreant's debut album. It's absolutely corking stuff once you get your head around the bleak and menacing demeanour of it all. Eight tracks long, 'Spit' begins with a slow stalk of a tune that has no tune, merely a creepy echo-laden kick and the sound of a doomed aircraft taking off then diving into the murky sea of the sewers of your mind. There's then a ricocheting depth charge thing going on and some melancholy wafts of synth. It kinda makes me think of Sleeparchive trudging through bone-syrup in the very depths of hell.
Straight into the next track, one that fits into the L.I.E.S. ethos of murky, raw jacking back-room club music. All woody stealthy percussion, malevolent panning acid-house claps, morphing low-end grumble and filthy electronic gutter squall. It's amazing and is titled 'Modern Paranoia'.
'Crack Microbes' sounds like a less clinical, grubby take on the sound that William Bennett has been brewing up in his cauldron of late under his Cut Hands guise. Basically a kicking percussive onslaught with all manner of 303-style madness bubbling up and fading away. This is really fierce but involving music that evokes thoughts of Unit Moebius and their commitment to darkened warehouses full of terrified ravers freaking on acid. Powerful relentless shit with an undeniably delicious funk to proceedings. 'Sledgehammer II' I won't spoil for you. I'm expecting Clinton through the door any minute. If he hears this grinding, churning motherfucker blasting out he may just disappear back out of it again, never to be seen again.
'Fake Rush' returns to the slightly more playful/cerebral weird-out jam style of his super-amazing record label. All built around whip-crack claps and rudimentary stalker-kick with some fucked-up rising/falling noise that could even be a heavily distorted speech sample sparring with this undulating cyclic moan and throb. Followed by 'Director Of...' which is a strange minimal piece sporting a decaying ping-pong rhythm and disintegrating indecipherable passages of blurred speech. 'No Real Reason' is one of my highlights being a brooding dark acid/minimal dub techno bruiser that does little more than quietly thump along and bubble creepily, kind of like Deepchord in a very, very bad mood. "Uhhhh! I just stood in some hooker phlegm, gross!" you can imagine Rod Modell shouting one morning whilst walking his shitzu. This ruined his day and here's the result.
What you say? These aren't the same people? Ron Modelli? The concluding piece isn't going to improve your day I'm afraid. A grinding piece of industrial dark ambient repetition, what more you require for fuck's sake? I spit on your grave...
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- Spit by Ron Morelli
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