If you haven’t heard of the Ɔrinkles, you’re missing out on something huge—huge, steaming, fouler-smelling than a pile of elephant shit with an entire colony of dead lemurs inside of it, et cetera et cetera, but huge nonetheless. Partially intersecting with other suppliers of surreal salubrity such as Sugar Pills Bone, Smogma, and the rest of the eccentric Buttersound clan (though if a rotten tooth–gnashing family power struggle were to take place, it’s clear our courageous Ɔrinkles would come out on top; who else promises “pandering Christian noise and other kinky aural sex innovations”?) this motley, enigmatic unit of sonic charlatans takes a different name for each release a la Caroliner and reshapes their sound to match. As the Slimane Oracle Bones Hospital they performed onslaughts of unstable filth improv and maxi-collage on par with the mighty micro_penis for Bored Bats Don’t Wrap Bones, embark on a twisted revue of cinema pour l’oreille on Bamblingozzorlutodrome! as the Sapling Flapjack Submarine, and now they turn to the reel-to-reels Joseph Hammer– and/or Yeast Culture–style for Frazzledrip Sump, an extended spurt of finely piped liquid audio-sewage. “Who would want to swim in that?” you might ask, and perhaps total-body submersion in putrid waste isn’t an ideal or sustainable form of musical consumption, but imagery of frothing, rotten runoff are unavoidable, because every drop of the source material used here seems to have come—or, rather, been discarded—from somewhere else. The only kinesis in the currents of flimsy electronic wobbles, macerated pop songs, and radio ramble is that of obstinately flowing water, rushing ever forward with gelatinous waves of magnetic tape tremble… just like “dolly ramen in the chocolate river.” The surge never stops until it reaches the bottom of the sump, and by then you’re fucked, because—as much as I hate to break it to, friend—the real frazzledrip is the slime you accidentally swallowed on the way.
Noise Not Music 