Here's a few off Fag Tapes what just dropped around the turn of the Armageddon Year. Ish. I figger, given the end time's approaching, I might as well hock my spare watches for a new tape deck.
Sorry the pickins been so slim, lately. Labels run from me like tickled rats.
Hive Mind
Beneath Triangle and Crescent c30
Fag Tapes
Some reason, I avoided a lot of this scene like it had something catching. Why? Who knows. The day don't hold much innarest lest it changes my mind. So, I checked in and found a few comfy spots around the room. Though part of me wants to send this to Southern Lord with an attached "CLOSED" sign, I worry they might not take kindly. But seriously, this thing sweeps up the dirt floor basement of sludge like Gein's toenails. It ain't near as repetitive as those Sunn0))) grumps neither, instead choosing to wallow in a variety of crapulence. When Side A settled on what sounds like Maurizio Bianchi dribbling a basketball on DJ Screw's court, I headed for a secure doorway, crackers or no. Say what you want about not-so-depraved folks making this manner of rumblings. At least it ain't bloodless. Just think, they could all be getting jobs at Group-On and playing math rock!
Aaron Dilloway
Since He's Been Gone c60
Fag Tapes
I like Wolf Eyes fine--in fact, just one entry back I was speaking mighty highly of Mr. Olson. They all seem to exist in the cramped camp of folks who can hold mad balls aloft, dropping nary a one. They slip here and there, sure, but rarely am I--or most other slime I know--calling the whole thing off. So it goes that Mr. Dilloway has sent a few screamers down my street and this is but another. Side A sees Dilloway loaning Thunderboy the Two Daughters lp, while Side B sets off muffled landmines at a Gerogerigegege swap meet. Smells like the buffet's almost ready! MMMmmmm, hey wait.
B didn't quite deliver on the hungover-brain-as-burnt-granola tip as A, but it be that way sometimes.
No comments:
Post a Comment