Trost
Full of throat-throttling goodness, this powerhaus trio carves quite a ruckus that effectively fills that massive void of a stage depicted on the cover. Right from the offing Caspar Brötzmann and Marino Pliakas‘s hexagonal arcs seem to leer, goading the somersaulting percussions and hypothermic cymbals of Michael Wertmüller. All three locking horns superbly , notching up quite a temperature, gnawing on each other’s shrapnel-filled halos in screeching brake and spewing turbine. The merest notion of tune, thrown to noisy kinetics and collision.
Gives your ears a really good workout as you get blissfully lost within that free-form forest of give and take, those opportunist grabs of limelight, the foot-to-floor rushes. A faceoff you wished you’d witnessed firsthand, something that the lucky audience between tracks completely lap up. That muscular mascara of bass on track two is storming, bold and hormonal,
burnt out on a spit-roast of electric and rhino-charging pummel. A passion that lumbers into some twilight of post carnality with the getaway car’s motor still ticking over, demanding more on bendy wahs and septic sceptres of bass and guitar. Then pouring forth on unrestrained torrents and percussive stubble…. rushing towards another wall of dive-bombing Stukas as if its brain was shouting out GUERNICAAA… ahh ahhHh uRrn kia kakakaka … imagined words burning tungsten bright chewing on your inner ear like an irate hyena.
The last two tracks enlist the charms of
FM Einheit, the inclusion of whom I was half-expecting to lead to all-out annihilation, but he settles for more of a ballet of mechanical maim-age, a lyrca-clad flex of twisted metallic tastes swallowed further by those monstrous lunges of bass, guitar and drum. Sounds cloaked in copious amounts of anonymity that banquet on remixing
King Crimson‘s “21st Century Schizoid Man” with
collapsing stilts and electrocuted puffer fish. This is ace, blow torches a wrecked rhythm with the very last track a boiling kettle of random directionals. They may call themselves
NoHome but I’m defo making a home for them here in my head.
-Michael Rodham-Heaps-
Full of throat-throttling goodness, this powerhaus trio carves quite a ruckus that effectively fills that massive void of a stage depicted on the cover. Right from the offing Caspar Brötzmann and Marino Pliakas‘s hexagonal arcs seem to leer, goading the somersaulting percussions and hypothermic cymbals of Michael Wertmüller. All three locking horns superbly , notching up quite a temperature, gnawing on each other’s shrapnel-filled halos in screeching brake and spewing turbine. The merest notion of tune, thrown to noisy kinetics and collision.
