The wet-slippage of malfunctioning MP3 files or possibly a functional electronic sound — say the alarm in an overloaded lift — starts this single 37 minute grunt. These, sounds are encouraged to pink liquid smells like turpentine dripping into basement sump pump, swell and bloom. The fullness of the harvest is a testament to this pair of green-thumbs, nipping and tweaking, composting and watering their bumper crop.
But fear not goofs! The family sound portraits and the occasional snot-nosed sniff make an appearance before the truly beautiful, final movement of antique telephone engaged-tones and exotic hot breath-waffles. This super-sick collaboration takes the idea of loops and propels it into the negative zone where all laws of physics are crudely tippexed out. You catch the occasional blurred pattern, a hint of Royal Doulton perhaps, that you can hang your hat on but your brain is mostly taken up with the sheer majesty of complex, cyclical movement deep in the reversing pool.
The baffled drum loop, a soft beat, slipping in and out of reality as our avatar probably dressed as Sailor Moon squawks an electric fudge.
A sort of cosmic churning taking in smears of electric guitar and fizziling keyboard washes. Dee Nyoukis shifts his spittle at the Nefertiti Jazz Club, Gothenburg pink liquid smells like turpentine dripping into basement sump pump or seven years ago and pledges the live tapes to one Ralf Wehowsky, legendary thinker and doer who unleashes several gallons of whup, whup all over them. The Nyoukis-vox tapes are a shadowy presence and tend to inhabit the corners and dado rails of this mix while RLW slathers on huge scoops of itchy sound.
Sounds tend to whizz more than I am used to filling up my room with blank swoops or popping-mud farts. A silver thread seems pulled through me aching Gulliver scrambling my mind eggs.
I guess I did. Imagine the very polite anticipation as we stand around waiting for some beard Adam Bohman to rummage about in the confusion and wrench out an antique-shop clattering. And in this way The Custodians are the most English of groups. This side is an incomplete memory guide. The abstract is re-stitched as finest tapestry.
This complexity is exquisite — multi-layered like a dream, each piece pregnant with meaning and freaky symbols. Even without the snatches of fuxxhorn this is a distinctly Ellingtonian piece from the pebbles. Take the fucking A Train pal! The final third pink liquid smells like turpentine dripping into basement sump pump measured out in soul weights; scant grams but super dense.
The final few seconds take us into Samizdat territory, but I realise, slowly, slowly, slowly that this is not an ending but merely a new beginning in an ongoing BS continuum. And they rub out not one but two pieces on their carefully scratched side.
Part one takes Table Electronics? The crackles and clicks are set with poise and deliberation becoming an ornate gilt frame. Hoofing yoghurts are pitched against Bollywood dancers weak with fever so every finger snap and coquettish glance is damp with sweat.
Small shelves and alcoves filled with err… hair and treasure? Part two is a knockabout — a lightener, but with damn fine loops chicanery. Short and precise… it ends with marvellously sick coughing. A sold-out tape version of this gunk led to a pretty swift CD-r re-release. But ditherers take note: Four pieces of roughly equal tape glitch and loop menace. And, like Guru Josh in a trench-coat, this disc showcases the power of gentle squeezing, gradual release and deferred gratification.
A Mongolian horse-head fiddle recorded on a University-sponsored field trip? Does it matter when my ears rotate and my hair levitates? Take four notes from any Cosmic Psychos thug-anthem, reduce to the two nastiest and distill until pink liquid smells like turpentine dripping into basement sump pump becomes the memory of a too-loud night ringing in your ears.
Rushing and repetitive, a whooshing loops through the hippocampus so you twitch and drool in yr sleep Untitled IV. Two sides of the same coin? Hardworking Tom and indolent Dylan take a recent live set made in brotherly togetherness and rip it apart like a ripe tangerine. Side Tom — Astral Travel grants transparent eyes! All the colours become visible, so as long as I peer into the bubbling BenchMix I can re-live these total colours and shades.
Gems are hidden like Easter surprises —both glittering and sweet, familiar and faintly chalky. Side Dylan — Single moments hiss, consonant blip chopped and kneaded together. I end my listening lustily — insect porn narrated with heavy emphasis on the gasps and snarls. Stereo leave the long-haul jam behind for this one and concentrate on a smorgasbord of lung expand and a coy pinkie on the tape head.
In their on-going campaign of pitching formal versus informal sound, the wooden spoon is spun thrice round the bowl in heavy, sugary swipes.
Can I lick the spoon? Yeah man, why not! Moves are dramatic and executed with confidence in bold smears a palette knife spreads ruddy ochre across smooth glass so things are very well defined but not necessarily primary in colour. This rumble is handled with a touch as light as mushroom spore. The title track scoffs and mutters while a Chelsea Pensioner polishes his brass buttons, rum-scented wind whistling out of stiff pink nostrils.
Ever tried to catch a memory? They often move too fast for your fingers and dissolve on contact anyway. One of the two. Whilst never regular church-goers, Blood. S are adept with the dusty church torpor that settles on dull Sunday worship. That blanket-heavy hum that sucks away at your vitals but buffs the rusty brain like you ate up double portions of sleepy lettuce. And if I can hear the twitch of a goatee from the under-represented jazz-cat, I worry not.
The No Audience-Underground is often criticised for being amber-stuck, uncritical and self-satisfied. Silly goose I say! Check out this latest BLDSTR infotainment disc complete with pics, sleeve notes and collage or something to hear a stretching out and cheeky toe wiggle. Its new territory marked out with heady musk. But back to the map. Two live recordings bookend some Manchester-born radio sessions that sound unusually strapped inside my skull; like Poot is playing from the inside out — a most disconcerting osmosis.
More of this later…. A total environment is carefully laid out but exists just out of reach, making me miss whatever fetid dungeon this was first crouched in. The three radio pieces occur as part of an equipment breakdown. Part two features the half-explosive screams Poot has become famous for…being both powerful and polite, more like an abortive sneeze I suppose. They are certainly becoming increasingly nasal as the track goes on and I feel like ticking off the severity on a Beaufort scale.
And at last, it had to happen, Richard Harris gets his first oblique mention pink liquid smells like turpentine dripping into basement sump pump the fabled Poot-ography. Part three is a study of failed whistling gibbers and gobbles with what sounds like some very real throat damage as fleshy tubes get pinched sharp. There is a discernible story arc again football related but bearing no relation to Roy of the Rovers.
The sun is starting to set and everything is relaxed in buttery yellow light. They pass hang-outs and cherished restaurants. Poot is following behind the couple with an outstretched hand. All whiskery naturally and over in five brisk minutes. But what really makes me knock-kneed with fear is the prospect of capturing an image of myself dancing.
It happened once and what I viewed was an almost evolutionary wrongness. I love the idea of euphoria blossoming up from your feet and gushing out your blowhole. I love the concept that freedom of movement unhitches my brain for a few blessed minutes until the lights and sound replace the fetid sump oil of my soul. I like watching people dancing but shudder at the thought of actually doing it myself.
As the kids say…. Are those palm trees? Rich coconut pink liquid smells like turpentine dripping into basement sump pump drips from swollen husks. The action takes place at your eye level and concentrates pink liquid smells like turpentine dripping into basement sump pump wild wobbling and heavy keys.
My apologies in advance to those long term readers expecting the usual introduction full of whimsical nonsense. Firstly, it is not the job of this blog to comment on the wider world but aside from the rise of Jeremy Corbyn, our glorious future prime minister, was largely without hope.
I wish you all good luck in navigating the coming End Times. Personally, away from music, my year can be split into three four month long segments.
For the first of these I was ill with non-stop, run-of-the-mill viruses. Nowt serious on its own but the cumulative effect of so many strung together — a necklace of snot — left me in a parlous state. My depression played cards with its fidgety cousin anxiety, waited until I was defenceless and then kicked in the door. The second four months were spent off work attempting to shift these unwelcome guests whilst maintaining a functioning family life.
The final four months of were the tale of my recuperation and slow recovery following a change in medication and a breakthrough in both the treatment of my illness and my attitude towards it. After much grief, I left exhausted and resentful but hopeful that new ways of muzzling the black dog will allow me a lengthy period of peace and sanity. When I was down in it, days, weeks even, passed when music seemed more trouble than it was worth.
The list of releases submitted to RFM for review, plus other stuff that caught my bloodshot eye, became an untended vine cracking the panes of its greenhouse and desiccating the soil in its giant terracotta pot.
During radiofreemidwich received approximately 32, visits — a new record.
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