I originally wasn’t going to write a review today because it’s been the absolute worst week—and maybe give myself an extra day off for reaching 800 posts and 100,000 views! Thanks to everyone who reads, listens, or otherwise supports!—but the truth is this debut release from Mothmen Ezekiel has been helping me through, and I want to share it in case anyone else is in a similar situation (and from what I’ve gathered, the malaise seems to be inexplicably universal). Tracked with maxed-out gain to a single skull-drilling mono channel, Voices is a two-part aural lobotomy for speech, screech, and crunch, instruments (whatever those even are) optional. The noise is more dynamic and unpredictable than a traditional wall, yet despite the changes in flavor and intensity it undergoes it always has this tearing, trouncing velocity, the same kind of unrelenting assault that keeps me rooted to my seat during Call Me Lucy or Night of the Bloody Tapes. When “It Stayed With Us When We Accelerated” started I was already on board to get my noggin wrinkles scrubbed by that flaying feedback blast for twelve minutes, but then a lower-pitched input jack hum lumbers into the torrent and makes me grin like an idiot. The “speech” part comes in the form of garbled radio chatter ground into gnashing gibbers, “spluttering and bubbling, jerking and rasping, whistling and screaming.” Two endlessly replayable doses of brutality. Irresponsibly, dangerously loud… if you know you know.

P.S. For completely unrelated reasons, make sure to catch up on Riverdale if you haven’t already (by pirating it only of course, fuck the CW).

Sung Tongs ranks among my least favorite Animal Collective albums, but it has its moments, and the twelve consecutive ones that comprise “Visiting Friends” are simply magical. That track randomly popped into my head as I was getting off the highway yesterday, and now I know why: so I can compare it to the soothing drifts of Visitors Bureau (and not just because of the similar title). “moving expenses” opens this new album by Philadelphia artist Steven R. Hammer’s project patchbaydoor in much the same way as an early-morning warm shower; it’s an instant escape, a cocoon of comfort and safety, a diaphanous capsule of calm that distorts time and keeps the sharp claws of the real world at bay. I bring up “Visiting Friends” because this piece, as well as the following two, perfectly execute that phenomenon of simultaneous movement and stasis—i.e., the tones and textures that remain largely stagnant are so intoxicating that traditional progression is no longer needed. Hammer’s ethereal, often unintelligible vocals, curling in from the edges of the ambience like sweet steam both at normal pitch and distorted into chipmunk croons, make Visitors Bureau a much more personal affair than a lot of conventionally beautiful atmospheric music; on “ca_ways” they adopt a more central role, cycling between crystallization into languorous laments and dissolution into broken layers and bubbling glitches. The radiant resolutions of “breathworks” fully cement this release’s greatness, and if you hadn’t seen the AnCo comparison before you certainly will in this one. It concludes with just enough of a hint of darkness to immediately make me want to curl up in its swathing embrace yet again.

Those of you who follow me on Instagram—I suspect I may have an even larger audience there than I do here—may have seen my story post earlier today about a severe drought of recent material to review. When I go longer than a day without a review it is almost always because I literally cannot find anything I like enough to write about, and believe me, I really try. For the past 36 hours or so neither my inbox nor Bandcamp has yielded any fruit, a frustrating predicament indeed. Thankfully my lovely followers came to the rescue, and one of them introduced me to Worcester, MA project Mellified Man (J. Spotts). As soon as the first shredding slice of feedback rent my ears I sighed with relief; Sex/Withdrawal was exactly what I needed after so much disappointment. It’s bittersweet, though, because volatile high-energy releases like this one tend to remind me how long it’s been since I’ve witnessed live noise. I can almost imagine the unmatched sensation that’s somewhere between physical pain and cathartic bliss as Spotts smashes stretches of piercing, wince-inducing shrieks into grinding chaos or unseats a merciless blast with limp tendrils of analogue decay. “Blood Loss” is an especially relevant track because of the radio grab that begins it (which may also be the original source for all the noise); with violent anti-Asian sentiments on the rise, much of the wanton and misinformed criticism of China’s handling of the coronavirus has been steadily exposed for what it always was: racist propaganda. And Spotts does exactly what the rest of us should do when they obscure and eviscerate the careless rhetoric with cacophonous distortion. Whether it’s from one person’s pedal chains and contact-mic’d scrap metal or from millions of souls and voices coming together as one, bigotry should always be met with the noise (preferably of the harsh variety) of resistance. People are dying, and you owe it to yourself and everyone else to be fucking loud—especially if you’re on top of anywhere near as massive of a steaming shit-pile of privilege as I am. Noise not music: action not complacency.

Wind Tide, the Littlefield, TX–based collaboration between Andrew Weathers and Gretchen Korsmo, will capture the hearts of anyone with an appreciation for subdued clatter within the very first seconds of Journal 2020. It doesn’t matter whether you prefer environmental, unintentional sounds—rainfall, chirping crickets, scrapes and swishes of branches—or ones made by human hands, for the duo makes ample use of both to craft these captivating and delicate pieces. Each exquisite texture is captured with a fidelity somewhere between the sublime stifling of tape recordings and the crystalline clarity of digital, and the result is a gorgeous, spellbinding neutrality that ambles along at a pace no faster than the organic progression of the original natural sound events, making use of an improvisatory language in which listening and making become one. The distant hisses, sparse feedback squeals, and loose granular ambience of “Western Oklahoma” evoke the hermetic magic of Michael Barthel’s Stapel. Efeu-Fährten, while “Palo Duro” crowds up front with incessant sawing, miniature machinations, words and whistles filtered through grime-choked mesh, and innocuous, offhand clunks like the sound of getting the last drops of pasta sauce out of the jar. For me this is one of those releases that I know I’ll have to listen to a million times (give or take) to fully process how much I love it.

Soft Shoulder’s 2020 LP Not the New One was and is everything I want in a scuzzy, shifty slab of deconstructive art-punk: rudimentary garage jams and trash-can-lid drums, $5-plastic-megaphone vocals, off-kilter arrangements, churning background collages, you name it. What I didn’t know until much more recently is that the Arizona-based collective has been kicking a lot longer—since 2010, in fact—and that they have made the entire 7″ format their bitch. Copy Machine Fall Down is just the newest in a long line of excellent singles, double-singles, and lathes, but there’s something about it that really makes it stand out. It could be how much the A-side track, “Touchless Display,” reminds me of Stutter’s forgotten classic Broken Snakes, the blueprint for pretty much any contemporary species of pasted-together-punk or rhythmic collage freakout; it helps that the track, along with its partner on the B side, was in fact assembled remotely by the groups most mainstayish member, James Fella. These roughly wrangled recordings twist into a dubby backbone that somehow lumbers and skitters at the same time and then into, well, the compositional equivalent of a spine lying in disconnected piles of jagged vertebrae on a cement floor. Anxious sax skronk, clumsy guitar detritus, and jarringly apathetic vocal ramble make the nearly 7-minute “Treat for Samson” an unforgettable clusterfuck.

Rapper! is a guitar and drums album that captures the spirit of Bailey and Bennink’s legendary June 1972 live sessions, transposing its bashing brutality and unhinged, rabid fun to a new era. Accomplished Belgian improvisers Karen Willems (drums) and Jürgen Augusteyns (guitar) had never played together before recording the material that would become Rapper!, but their sonic rapport is of that sort that defies typical conceptions of seasoned interplay or mutual preoccupations, and instead is perhaps more comparable to the boundless, breathless adventures you had with that kid you met at the park when you were five and never saw again. It’s impossible not to listen to ecstatic nonsense-frescoes like the opening title track or amorphous jams a la “Trager, of neen, toch rapper!” without imagining Willems and Augusteyns face-to-face in a cramped studio, dripping with sweat and just screaming at each other as they mash and mutilate their instruments with unyielding force. Amidst the chaos there are moments of reticence and even tenderness, but they always retain some semblance of bizarreness; take “Altijd,” for example, in which a simple, incessant fingerpicked line is haunted by whips, rustles, and whispers from Willems at the music’s furthest edges. It’s bits like this that establish the presence of something beyond just the two talented musicians having fun. There’s a wordless connection, an understanding—a garishly colorful and misshapen one perhaps, but an understanding nonetheless.

For those of you whose desert-island harsh noise classic is the Blod Red Light Companion box set, look no further for some fresh slabs to cut your buckteeth on. On Handed All He Needs, the first in a series of acronym-extrapolated titles to see a physical release, New Jersey artist N.E. Hertzberg puts on a clinic for one-minute blasts, of which there are 40 in total—a nice symmetry for something of this length, like Commercial Album and others whose conspicuously neat track durations and quantities elicit a necessary second look. In some sense this tape is similar; the vivid, meaning-rich titles were simply jotted down stream-of-consciousness–style in a fleeting fit of inspiration, while Hertzberg explicitly encourages shuffle-play, both of which seem to be qualities that undermine the completeness and intentionality we expect from finished albums. But the music itself is another story. Each cut is its own inferno of delirious chaos, with enough ornamentation around the main course of skull-rattling pedal crunch to keep every chunk of the LP-length run time engaging: mangled screams, bleep-blooping glitch cycles, melodies caked and baked in distortion, delirious center-channel obfuscation. Hertzberg’s versatility is on full display whether one plays through the provided track order or makes their own; at times he waxes psychedelic with descents into hallucinatory murk and climbs to somewhere near C.C.C.C. sheet-metal-squall bliss; and at others he keeps things muscular and immediate, often reaching that elusive state in which the electronics seem to control the noisemaker rather than the other way around.

After yesterday’s review, as well as the fact that I’ve actually been able to read outside without a jacket on the past few days, I think we’re in need of something more… soothing. And that’s exactly what Fsik Huvnx’s new tape is (by the way, it’s much easier to pronounce the actual name of the person behind the project: David Brieske). I almost gasped aloud when I first put it on after getting it in the mail and “Distant Islands” faded into existence… the title Spires That Rise from the Earth is probably the most fitting phrase to describe the ecstatic heights this album consistently reaches, because while it hovers and dwells in a bath of seraphic glow far above us it remains steadfastly anchored to the unyielding ground. The way in which Brieske has captured these modest sounds is understated and yet unshakably exquisite; for example, “The End of a Day” is nearly eight minutes long and consists only of slow-shifting organ dirges, but its soft, muffling cocoon of hiss and distance makes the act of listening to them a much more significant experience—one that is somehow remembering, forgetting, creation, and exhumation all at once. Successive tracks add flavor with bird twitters and nature-sighs nestled in the left/right channels or densely layered, interlocking melodies that eventually meld into languid, transcendent drone symphonies like the song of a massive golden wind chime. Though I wish more of the tracks were as colorful and complex as the opener (especially with all this talk of painting), the tape as a whole gains a lot from the depth of these hermetic laments: threnodies to something no one—or, perhaps, only Brieske—remembers.

Would really recommend getting a tape copy of this… can’t really imagine listening to it any other way.

A harmonica. That is where all of the sound used to create the punishing, artificial majesty of Brazo was originally sourced; yes, those little hollow, rectangular blocks of metal and imitation wood you used to get for Christmas as a kid and forget about weeks later or that some prop up with those ingenious neck-holder devices. The actual music that Daniel Iván Bruno summons via a gauntlet of adaptive digital processing bears negligible resemblance to the familiar warm, metallic rasp of that classic instrument; instead, it’s loud, abrasive, mechanical, antiseptic. Profoundly detached and dissected bits of broken notes become bullets in an endless, rapid-feed machine gun belt, sending microscopic bits of eviscerating noise into the fluid space of Bruno’s own sculpting and manipulations. Opener “MDA” rattles all the little screws securing your eardrums right out of their holes with its relentless, piercing, stuttering onslaught, while “Marzo” plays with the kind of awe-inspiring electronic spatiality that make expert system-spanners like Hecker and Ikue Mori so compelling. But even though Brazo is computer music through and through, much of its enthralling roil engages the ears with the same slipshod agility and restless twiddling as the best tabletop harsh noise, which gives these crystal-clear eruptions of causticity an irresistible scruffiness.

The first thing we hear on Feu de Joie is the violin, a warm, plodding octave vamp in the same spirit as the opening moments of Jim O’Rourke’s Happy Days, and just based on this section one might think they’re about to hear a very different album. But Bignamini and his arsenal of deconstructive sensibilities do not disappoint; this rather short tape is an expansive and expressive patchwork of beautiful abstractions that nonetheless is haunted by the tangibility of the most ubiquitous classical string instrument. Between lush, heavily tape-processed crackle-scapes, rainfall, everyday ephemera, and decontextualized voice, the violin is in turn meditative, elegiac, wistful, spectral. According to Bignamini, much of the less identifiable textures were created by it being “manipulated, broken down and corroded through the use of tape recorders and some electric interferences produced by various loudspeakers and cheap microphones,” so it likely has a place in most if not all of the handful of untitled tracks, but it is these moments of lucid convention that anchor the artist’s elusive assemblages. The stated classic musique concréte influence is also an enjoyable and unifying current throughout the tape. I’m especially partial to the fourth (or maybe the third?) piece on side B, in which minuscule electronic pinches, crystalline fast-forward blur, and aquatic modular bloops form a tried-and-true amalgam. This is, as expected, fantastic stuff. Curse you IT→US shipping prices!